


Smitten at First Fright

by Oopsynini



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst and Feels, Anxiety Attacks, Bird Watcher Aziraphale, Bottoming from the Top, Chronic Pain, Disabled Aziraphale (Good Omens), Disabled Character, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Food Issues, Force-Feeding, Gardener Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hospitalization, Humor, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Loss, M/M, Meet-Cute, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Past Character Death, Permanent Injury, Pining, Post Organ Transplant, Power Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), References to Depression, Romance, Sexual Content, Sick Character, Sickfic, Social Worker Anathema, Widow Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24907870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oopsynini/pseuds/Oopsynini
Summary: Aziraphale has problems. No one needs to tell him so, he's well aware that his issues are many and in-between. He's an agoraphobic shut-in with a bad back and a sad past. It's a rule that, to most, he isn't much worth the effort of getting to know. Crowley doesn't seem to abide by any of that. He's an enigmatic gardener with a green thumb and a smile a thousand miles wide. It's something like love at first sight; if that included a panic attack and a minor foray into bird watching.Aziraphale is smitten, now if only he could get past his fears and admit it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 539
Kudos: 472
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Panic in the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Please please please read this to the song 'Elevator Song' by Keaton Heston. Follow it up with 'Fields' by him as well and you'll be set for this story!
> 
> This whole album is what inspired me to write this little story, it's a dreamy sad sort of instrumental muse that completely describes Aziraphale's state of mind.

Aziraphale stood in the foyer of his building, a dismal, nervous fellow that otherwise took away from a cheerful atmosphere. It was bustling and busy, bright and vibrant, and everything that Aziraphale knew he wasn't. To say he was feeling inadequate was an understatement. In comparison, he was a dull, monotone fellow who everyone seemed to steer clear off, and for which none seemed eager to give a second glance. He supposed it might be his trouser; he'd run out of starch, and they weren't as tiptop as they should be. Other possibilities included his hair, which was in a disarray of pale curls atop his head, or his general lopsided appearance, as he leaned heavily on his crutch. Then again, it might just be the utter terror he was currently feeling at the moment. The book and camera he held in his left arm were unreasonably burdensome and felt too heavy. His feet were currently glued to the marble tiles, eyes locked on the large outward-facing windows. He was stuck to the spot and had no immediate inkling of if he could even move from said location.

Today was a wonderful break in what had been a dreary week of misting rain and lingering clouds. Those had all been burned away by the sun, leaving the sky blue and radiant. When he had woken to the dewy chill in the air and sun shining on his face, he'd been struck with the idea to go outside. It was a wonderfully silly idea, but one he couldn't get out of his head. It was a good day. His back was all-around functional. Pain levels bearable and being treated by a beautiful cocktail of muscle relaxants and painkillers. He'd woken up, put on his trousers and his jumper, snagged his most comfy set of loafers, and took up his walking crutch. Up until getting off the lift, he'd felt confident and resolute in finally leaving his flat complex. By all rights, he should be able to get outside and _do_ something.

So here he was, in the foyer, lollygagging like a complete dope. Across the street was the garden, and it was just a bustling and full of life as he'd imagined. His eyes lingered on toddlers and parents playing kickball among picnicking lovers and a vendor on the corner, selling fish and chips. He thought it looked like something from a painting. Georges Seurat would make a lovely rendering of this day if he were still alive.

If only he could make himself take the steps to get to it.

Instead, Aziraphale's ears were ringing, a deep drone that vibrated in time with his heartbeat. The whole room had an aura about it—a fuzzy touch to reality that had him swaying in place. Behind him, the lift dinged, cheerfully releasing its occupants. The sound of tromping shoes wasn't reassuring in the least. In his ears, a feminine voice played through his headphones, her voice a familiar comfort. _'Keep calm. Breathe in and out and let your body settle in this new location.'_ Oh, God. He hadn't even made it to said new location. He was such a raving mess—a crazy loon who couldn't even leave his damned flat!

_I should go back up. This was a moronic idea._

"Hey. You okay?" Aziraphale jerked from his indecisive reverie. Leaning heavily on his arm crutch, he turned in place to see whoever had spoken. It was probably some far off conversation that had nothing to do with him. But when he looked up, it was to meet the richest, most yellow set of eyes he'd ever seen. They were attached to a kind, sunbitten face that was nothing but sharp angles and thin lips. Whoever this man was, he looked something like a bird, with that beaked nose. He also happened to be looking directly at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale blushed, stuttering a soft apology and hurriedly looking down to avoid direct eye-contact. His eye lingered on the working bucket that the other man grasped with dexterous hands, complete with trowel and hand rake. _Oh!_ This was the gardener. Aziraphale had never seen him up close before. Previous encounters had been of the solo variety. Glimpses from his third-story window, while the other man worked on the flower bed just outside Aziraphale's window, baking in the hot sun. Aziraphale stared. His hand white-knuckled where it clutched around the binding of his book. He really hadn't expected him to be such a looker. He was nothing but a semi graceless beanpole from afar.

"I'm sorry. Were you speaking to me?" 

"Yeah, of course." The other man smiled, scratching a hand through his stylish red hair and shrugging. "You looked a little ill. I just wanted to see if you're okay. Do you want me to call somebody for you? Do you live in the area?"

Aziraphale blushed a bright red, turning his head down to stare at the floor. Oh, what a dunce. He couldn't even look normal just standing there. The gardener was wearing converse shoes. Who wore converse to work in? Sounded painful on the arches. 

"Oh. No, I don't really have... People." He explained, glancing back outside. The hazy glow had eased some from around his eyes. He could actually focus on the cars driving past without flinching. Maybe it was worth giving a go? "But I live here. So please don't call the law. I'm fine."

"Pssh, never! I'm the new groundskeeper. It's been a couple of months, but I still don't know everyone's face yet!" The other man explained, following Aziraphale gaze outside. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Good for a walk?"

"Uh...yes, my thoughts exactly. I saw what I thought was a Nightingale in that tree." Aziraphale waved to the tree where he'd spotted the little bird. He'd heard its song from his living room window and had been undeniably eager to get a look. Only the creature had been, up to this point, horribly tenacious in its invisibility. The closest he'd come was a bit of brown tail feather. This was just another reason why he'd found himself in this current predicament, clinging to his British Bird Guide and camera like they were his last anchor in a rising tide. "I just...need a minute, and I'll be on my way."

"I can show you around?" Aziraphale barely heard the question, instead drawn to his voice. It was like honey, silky, and alluring. "I'm heading that way anyway."

A gentle touch to the small of his back had him jumping in place. The rubber of his shoe soles squeaking on the marble tiles. It was shockingly pleasant that broad warm palm. And without him realizing he felt the world calm. That constant overwhelming brightness becoming bearable, the singing of the lift fading to nothing. The terrifying drone of cars passing by and of people's chatter, all narrowed down to that soothing, curious flutter of fingers. Before he knew it, Aziraphale was being guided out of the front doors. His feet following the warm pressure of the other man's palm, leading him along.

Blinking, Aziraphale realized he was being spoken to. "See those petunias over there? They've been a hassle recently. I can't decide if they should be dug up and tossed, or if I should just let them work through their issues." Thank goodness, he was a chatty one, filling in the awkward space with his presence and chatter, making it really not that awkward at all. 

"I do like the petunias. They're the only flower I can see from my window," Aziraphale admitted, looking up at that charming face rather than his surroundings. If he stumbled a bit, the hand moved to support him, guiding him about as if they'd done this a dozen times before. 

"Oh yeah? They're a nice hybrid color. It's why I like em. Hate to see a good flower go just because it needs a little more special care." The gardener explained with the enthusiasm of a true plant lover. "Look at that, grassy land!"

The words took a moment to register. Once they did, Aziraphale stumbled to a halt, feet rooting to the ground as the texture beneath his shoes changed from asphalt to cushy green carpet. Looking down, he caught sight of the lushest, greenest of lawns—the plush grass curling around the toes of his shoes. Scanning around, his mouth went dry as he looked upon the rest of the park. The layout was familiar, but he'd only ever seen it from above. Now he was in it, among trees that seemed to tower above him, clashing with the blue of the sky and casting shadows here and there thanks to the midday sun. A butterfly fluttered past, a bright yellow with little black sports. More sunshine glistened warm and tender on his cheeks.

It was terrible.

"Oh....shite." When was the last time Aziraphale had been outside? It had to be two years now. Two years of complete isolation and utterly miserable loneliness. He was outside. 

God, he was outside!

Somebody whimpered beside him. No. That was him whimpering. He was panicking. Pathetic. So pathetic, but he couldn't help it. "I-I, oh dear, I can't breathe." Aziraphale gasped for breath as his throat constricted down to the size of a straw. He could feel the blood leaving his head and traveling somewhere into the pit of his stomach, a horrid dread of a thing balling up and building into crushing terror. It pushed aside any logical thought, drowning him in a well of growing panic until he felt faint.

"Fuck! Hey, are you okay?" Aziraphale heard the sound of the mystery man's voice, like a distant echo that he has no will or ability to address. Numbly he drops his camera and books. They fall to the grass, alone and forgotten. 

"Okay, okay, you poor thing. Come on. Let's just...go over here." Aziraphale stumbled but again found himself blundering to follow after that gentle pull of the other man's hand. The grass dragged along his feet, his arm crutch sunk into the damp ground with every step, making it difficult to find some sort of footing. When he was bodily tugged and pulled to set down, he collapsed with a gushing gasp of air and a sobbing whimper. Releasing the handgrip to his crutch, he desperately wiggled his forearm out of the brace, wrapping his hands around himself in a bid to self-soothe the growing anxiety.

The woman on his headphones was discussing breathing methods to calm anxiety. How ironic.

He didn't need the hands that settled into his shoulders but accepted their guidance well enough. Pressure was placed on his back, urged him forward. Willingly he pressed his face to his knees, hunching over and dragging in great gasping breathes of air that were much too fast and panicked. It hurt, this new position, straining on scar tissue and barely functional bones. He ignored it. Breathing was more critical at the moment. For something so basic, he was failing miserably at it. Between his legs, he could see the bright grass again, so he squinched his blue eyes closed against that distraction.

 _'Close your mouth and inhale quietly through your nose, count of 4. Hold your breath to a count of 7. Exhale completely through your mouth, making a whoosh sound to a count of 8.'_ His audiobook urged. Aziraphale struggled to follow, whooshing where he wasn't supposed to and breathing in through his mouth at all the wrong moments.

"That's a lad. Try to breathe deep breaths, pumpkin. Here. I have an idea." Hands sought out his phone, wiggling into his trouser pocket with very little permission on his part. "You look like a classical man. How about something to block it out, huh?"

Aziraphale couldn't even honor him with a response. His body had taken to rocking in place all on its own, the wooden bench creaking under his weight as he worked himself into a full-fledged panic attack. "Right, I'm gonna do my best not to touch you, but if you'll hold out your finger?" With the barest of touches, Aziraphale found his finger pressed to his phone, unlocking it. A moment later, unfamiliar new-age classical music kicked in, a soft, quiet background noise that increased slowly by decibels.

It drowned out the sound of the city better than the self-help book he'd been listening to, overwhelming it with orchestral strings and horns. Aziraphale breathed in a great sigh of relief, breath hitching in his throat. It took a few moments, but eventually, he managed to bring his panic down to a manageable level. All the while, the gardener stayed with him. Rubbing a hand up and down his back, murmuring reassurance and warning of incoming things that might further Aziraphale's panic. Muttering things like: "Look at this doofus on his unicycle, think he's gonna fall over?" and "We've got ourselves a would-be pianist. Ignore the clashing keys. What you're listening to is much better."

Followed by, "Think this driver's gonna honk." The words pierced by a loud honking sound that had Aziraphale jolting visibly. "Yup, guessed it. I'm not saying I'm flipping the cunt off right now, but who am I kidding. I'm definitely throwing him the big one!" 

Aziraphale laughed, the sound coming out strained and surprised at the sheer audacity of the gardener fellow. He'd never laughed during a panic attack. The man was utterly ridiculous. He was usually treated like a defective ninny when things like this happened. His reactions were outside the norm entirely. 

"Listen to that! Methinks the Bird has a naughty side. Should I flip someone else off for you? I ain't promising I'll stick around for the fight, but these fingers are itching to start something." He was ridiculous, a marvelous idiot in blue jeans. "Are you feeling okay in there?" Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to speak, just force himself to give a nod that wobbled and was utter trash. Of course, he wasn't okay, he was a mess, and he was in the presence of someone way outside his league. 

"Wanna coat tent? I can make ye the best coat tent right now. It'll be fantastic."

Aziraphale sniffled, wiping fear sweat from his brow. "What does that even mean?" He questioned, turning his head towards the sound of the other man's voice.

"Probably better to show you actually, mad skills, is what this involves. Alright, three... two-one!" The wuffle of fabric in the air was quickly followed by the sun blocking out from his vision, and Aziraphale forced his eyes open, only to find himself surrounded by black leather. It dangled on his head and pressed down his curls. The scent of fertile soil, grass clippings, and lingering cologne enveloped him. Dark and warm on his nose. He inhaled through mucus and tears to catch more of it, drawn to the smell just as he was to everything else about the man.

The gardener was under the fabric as well, looking at him for all the world like he was the most important thing in the whole park. His odd yellow eyes flashed in the dim light. That, combined with the drawling thrum of the cello on his ears, was deeply calming. Taking in a ragged breath, Aziraphale felt daring enough to keep that eye contact, a small grateful smile twisting his lips. The other man smiled back, white teeth glinting; he looked predatory, like a shark, if sharks were sexy and had great hair. 

"Hey there, handsome, getting it under control?" 

Aziraphale blushed at the endearment, a furious heating of his cheeks taking over. He jerked his eyes away, twisting his fingers on his lap and laughing shakily. He was a gummy mess of anxiety and agoraphobia. The likelihood of his being remotely attractive at the moment was close to nill. "Let's try not to be ridiculous." Aziraphale squeaked.

"Nothing about this is ridiculous, 100% human, is what we have going on here. Who doesn't need to hide under a jacket tent some days? Feels nice too. The sun is a bloody disaster today." He explained, his expressive brows accenting his every word.

"Don't you have work to do?" Aziraphale questioned, not daring to look out past the darkened leather world he currently resided in. If he did, he knew whatever composure he had was going to fall apart. 

"Nah, plants don't have a time frame; they are good like that." The gardener explained, scratching black painted nails against his chin. The paint was chipped, the once nice manicure verging on needing a redo. "So, you have a thing for Nightingales, huh?"

"Mmm, y-yes." His voice felt weak, a whisper compared to usual, but the gardener had been listening. Such consideration could not be ignored. "Most birds, really." Sniff. "But Nightingales are a lovely little paradox. T-they are so plain but have the song of an angel. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."

"Ah, is that what I've been hearing, an Angel?" There was a wicked gleam to those yellow eyes, and Aziraphale was observant enough to hear capital A in that, oh did he. It left him with the feeling that the other man wasn't talking about birds at all.

"You are...ridiculous," Aziraphale admitted, not intending to say the words aloud.

The grin that lit up those features was worth the slip-up. "Is that so?" He seemed pleased, and he leaned in closer, bringing with him a renewed hit of cologne.

"Aziraphale!" The sound of his name interrupted them and had him jerking in his seat. Breaking eye contact with those hypnotic orbs, Aziraphale turned his head towards the sound of his name, letting out a very masculine squeak of distress. He recognized that voice, and she would not be pleased with him.

"Anathema? Crap!" He felt his eyes widen and winced visibly, clutching his coat tent desperately to the top of his head in an attempt to hide under it. The gardener's concerned face disappeared behind its drapes, and he had a moment of thinking he'd dodged the witchy woman.

"Aziraphale, I know that's you under there. What are you doing outside, darling?!" She questioned, her voice drawing near. The disappointed tone was heavy and reprimanding, and he groaned, that trembling feeling kicking into overdrive in his chest.

"Miss, calm down. Can't you see your frightening the poor thing?" The gardener chimed in, like a true gentleman, bless his soul.

"And who are you?" Anathema snorted, and Aziraphale could just sense her upturned nose. 

"I-Well...I'm the gardener." How horrible, Anathema was chasing the poor man away, and all he was trying to do was be kind.

"Oh! Well, that explains a lot. I'm his Case Manager, so I can take over from here." Anathema announced, making it sound like he was some problem child to foist off. Aziraphale's heart sank somewhere into the pit of his belly, and he shrunk in on himself, somewhere between mortified and completely, horribly ashamed. If he had the ability to slouch he would just slump down into a puddle on the grass and hope to be stomped into oblivion.

"Hey, now! I don't think that's something you should talk about to strangers?!" The gardener questioned, sounding offended. That was nice, at least he wasn't the only one feeling upset at Anathema's words. This had all gone horribly wrong. There was no saving whatever this interaction had been, so he had best retreat and treat his wounds. Aziraphale scrambled for his walking stick, fingers trembling as he got hold of the arm strap and slipped his hand through it.

"And what would you-" 

"It's alright, dear," Aziraphale hurriedly interrupted Anathema. He wasn't sure who he was reassuring but thought it best to intervene before they dug themselves into a real tiff, "Really, I should probably go. I-I shouldn't have tried this today, messed it right up." Aziraphale straightened, knowing he looked utterly absurd under the leather of the gardener's coat, but unable to make himself care. Best to flee, before he embarrassed himself further.

"Anathema?" He held out a hand, grateful when he felt the crook of her arm settle into his. "If you don't mind dragging me on back to the flat, I'll do my best not to break down." He whispered in her general direction, his voice low and distressed.

He couldn't bring himself to say goodbye to the kind man with the yellow eyes. Instead, whispering a soft thank you under his breath and allowing Anathema to lead the way. If he'd been able to see past the coat, he would have noticed the gardener fellow a few steps behind. He didn't, though. It took only three steps for the rest of the world to creep back in, overwhelming even the gentle harvest of string instruments playing in his ears. He gasped at the sound of a vehicle's brakes shrieking, jerking closer to Anathema on instinct. She patted his hand, but the touch was awkward and discomforting compared to the gardeners. If she was talking, he couldn't hear it past his rapidly increasing heartbeat and the feel of his shame rushing in his head.

 _Stupid-stupid man, can't do anything right._ He drew in ragged breaths, in 4, out 8, hold 10. No, that was wrong, always so wrong. When the frustrated tears started to fall, he was so grateful for the jacket covering his face. The blustering gust of in house conditioning announced their entrance back onto the flat complex, and his crutch took to the marble with gusto, leaving behind little prints of mud in its wake. Sniffing, he managed to make his way onto the lift with help from Anathema, only bumping into one person in the process.

The doors closed with a ding. He shut his eyes, finally alone.

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale-" That sent his anger blazing.

"Ezra!" He corrected, jaw clenched around the word. "I've told you not to call me that a dozen times! Only _he_ called me Aziraphale." Aziraphale snatched the jacket from his head, turning his blue, tear-stained eyes to glower at the younger women. It hurt to hear his name spoken aloud. No matter how he referred to himself, he much preferred the name Ezra when others spoke to him. It was trivial, but it was something he had reminded Anathema of dozens of times! 

She had the decency to look embarrassed, "I'm sorry, Ezra. I shouldn't have said that out loud in front of a stranger. He was right." Anathema was undeterred, but she nodded her head in understanding, her eyes wide and concerned as she took in his teary complexion.

"Yes, well....best if we put it behind us." Aziraphale sniffed, wiping at his cheeks and glancing around the lift. _This_ he was familiar with, and while his anxiety was still on full force, he thought he could handle the rest of his walk to his apartment. "I trust you can get yourself back home from here?"

"Of course, maybe I'll stop by tomorrow?" Anathema's expression was hurt, but he didn't think he could handle reassuring the woman at this point. Their friendship would need to be mended on a different date. He nodded his head in agreement with her question. The lift slowed, and he braced himself on the rail before moving towards the opening doors. Turning to the left and heading away without either of them saying their goodbyes. Her eyes pierced the space between his shoulder blades, but he managed to stay tall, limping only just a little.

When the door to his apartment closed behind him, he groaned in relief, not bothering to remove his shoes before heading right to the medicine cabinet above the microwave.

He didn't dwell on the jacket as he laid it on the countertop. Instead, pulling down his tray of medication and digging through it with shaking hands. Three tablets-anxiety, sleep, and pain. That's what he needed. The aura obscuring his vision made it difficult to read the labels, but through much blinking and cursing, he managed. Twisting the caps, he dropped the various tablets into his palm. They tasted bitter on his tongue, but he succeeded in getting them down with a suck at the open faucet of his sink, too anxious to even think of holding on to a glass.

Dragging himself to his room, he settled on to the bed, the springs barely giving under his light weight. Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to take in a couple of deep breaths. Soft classical music still sang through his ears, eagerly reminding him of gentle hands and rich cologne. Reaching to take off his shoes, his movements were hampered by pain and awkward as he attempted to lift his legs enough to untie them. The laces didn't come close to his fingers, so he gave up in favor of toeing each one off. It was more work to drag himself up into the nest of pillows he had made for himself, but he managed to settle in among the body cradling fluff, dragging in grateful gasps of air. The medicine was kicking in already, the combination of the three medications pushing back the anxiety and worry into welcoming numbness and fatigue. This he could handle, this he is used to.

The bedroom was warm and comforting in its familiarity. He had decorated it with hoards of books and pictures of his favorite birds. They were pictures from before. From a time when he had willingly ventured into wildernesses unknown just to find a rare feathered friend. He'd had someone at his side back then, but that'd been years ago. 

Dragging a pillow to his chest, he looked over the mementos of time past, a flicker of golden yellow caught his eye, and he lingered on the fluffy form of a Yellowhammer bird, a tiny little thing with bright plumage unusual for the British isles. He looked at it and thought instead of warm yellow eyes and a kind touch. How odd, for such a short encounter to make such a deep impression.

If he has himself a small cry over the missed opportunities, no one is around to scold him, and he keeps it to a maximum of fifteen minutes, a good healthy cry, nothing too dramatic. By then, the antidepressant had hit, and he let's exhaustion overcome him, dragging him down into heavy, fitful slumber.


	2. Chance at the Lift

Aziraphale woke to a monster of a headache and the dawning realization that he was complete and utter trash. Both physically and mentally. From the moment he woke up, his mind was lingering over yesterday's events with gusto, nitpicking every little mishap. He was just as mortified about his actions as he had been the day before. What had he been thinking? 

He could hardly imagine how he'd be able to leave his flat from here on out, with half the building watching him tugged along like a lost lamb. He'd no doubt be the gossip of the block before long if he weren't already. That might not mean much to most, but it was a hard hit for someone whose whole world resided in said building.

 _Well, best not dwell on it._ A laughable concept, all Aziraphale did was dwell; he was a dweller, through and through. If there was something to overthink, he was the man for the job.

Dragging himself upright, he reached for his crutch and made for the loo, forcing one stiff leg in front of the other until he had his business done and was somewhat ready to face the day. Limping into the kitchen, he puttered about. Toast makes its way into the toaster. Tea follows, long flingers turning on the electric kettle. As he waits for the water to boil, he catches sight of something black on the counter. It's the gardener's coat. 

"Dammit, Ezra, you've gone and stolen that poor man's jacket!" Aziraphale stared at it for a moment before reaching out and dragging it over to him. It's warm and heavy in his arms and still smelled of the man's cologne. He smiled some at the overpowering scent of sod. The gardener seemed to have rolled in it. Well, there was nothing to be done but return the thing. Maybe he'd save himself the embarrassment and have Anathema do it for him this afternoon?

Probably best, now that he's given the poor dear the impression that he was a raving lunatic. A raving lunatic who also steals jackets. Besides, he doesn't know if he'll be able to brave leaving the flat anytime soon, even the idea of a stroll to the elevator has his ears ringing and his heart palpitating in his chest.

"Such a cowardly thing," He whispered aloud to himself, fussing with his tea and tablets until he was confident he had everything just right. He does not eat much, but since the medicine calls for it, he dressed his toast up with jam. It cherry tart, and had at one time, been a little treat he'd thoroughly enjoyed. Now it's become a bother, the eating, not the jam. He finds himself forgetting to imbibe of such things lately. Anathema had noticed his rapidly thinning waistline, but there wasn't a whole lot she could do on the developing situation, just urge him to the therapist. Something that was entirely out of the question.

Taking his goods, he settled down at the small table for two he had set out in front of his living room window. The chair he selected for himself had a blue cushion that's shaped just right for aching hips, so he sank into it with a sigh of relief. He was on a corner flat, which meant he has a beautiful view of the rising sun, watching as orange rays chase back the midnight blue of dawn. The garden was just as lovely as it had been the day before. Verdant and green and alive even without anyone about. The birds were atwitter with delight, pattering about in the grass and fluttering among the trees. A common blackbird partook at the fountain, drinking from the crystal waters with dips of its beak. A robin slipped into the undergrowth, on the hunt for food, no doubt. 

It doesn't seem half as terrifying from up here. Vehicles are a safe distance away, and Aziraphale has invested in a healthy set of soundproof windows, which he can choose to open or close if he wants to let in some of the city. The trees lack detail and seem warm and welcoming, not dreadful and towering, as they had yesterday. A lone jogger runs by, his trainers dancing on the pavement with nimble alacrity. Aziraphale watches him disappear around the corner with a small amount of envy.

It's an effort to get it down, his toast, his anxious belly protesting every bite. He takes to nibbling on it instead, sipping his tea and looking down at the gardener's work. He's right. The petunias do look under the weather, their foliage browning on the edges, and less than stellar compared to a few weeks ago.

The gardener. His head won't leave the poor man well enough alone. 

Staring into his cup of tea, he mused over summer sun-colored eyes and sod scented leather. If he wasn't such a lump, he might find it humorous that he had developed something of a crush while in the midst of a panic attack. How very him.

With breakfast complete, and his tablets all taken, he considered letting himself lie in for the day, maybe pick up a book and read it cover to cover. That was always a pleasant accomplishment. He knew it was depression telling him to just drag himself back to bed and wallow for a good while, but Anathema would be coming by sometime today, and if she saw him in such a state, she'd throw a tissy and ask him if his doses were working.

Since he felt his current melancholy was well warranted -he'd made a fool of himself, after all- it'd be a most annoying interaction indeed. Anathema was a lovely woman, but he much preferred her when she wasn't feeling sanctimonious. She was a blessing most days, but her lack of experience and general disinterest in stepping outside the box could be exhausting at times. 

Making himself another cup of tea, he settled in with a lovely little leather-bound book, spending his time watching the sunrise and reading small snippets that didn't quite stick.

A knock on the door interrupted his third attempt at rereading a particularly troublesome paragraph. His heart jumped in his chest at the sound, as it always did whenever someone saw fit to invade his little heaven. He eyed the wooden door with a small amount of trepidation, biting his lower lip and sighing. The clock beside the door stated it was ten in the morning, a little early for visitors, but not unheard of.

"Get on with it. No doubt, it's Anathema." He reprimanded himself, reaching for his arm crutch and making the painstaking effort to get onto his feet. His back protested, sending out waves of mind-numbing pain from his hips to his knees. 

"Nnnn..." He barely heard the second, more tentative knock on the door through the ringing in his ears. Oh, he had overdone the sitting down bit, what joy. Using the back of his chair for further support, he managed to situate feet and ankles and knees and hips into a tolerable position. He was certain he looked off-kilter, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Leaning heavily on his crutch, he made his way to the door.

A peek through the peephole showed no one about. Something which made Aziraphale uncomfortable and restless in his slippers. "Hello?" He called, hoping for a response. When none came, he sighed, urging his hand to the knob and pushing down that restless anxiety that kicked at his heart. 

The hallway was empty.

Glancing from one end to the other, he felt his brows furrow in an open display of confusion. "Hello?" He called again, peering towards the lift when the doors dinged. They were just closing though and offered no answer as to who would have knocked. How odd. 

Moving to closed the door, Aziraphale paused at a rustling sound and turned to the source. There, on his door handle, was a somewhat stained paper bag, with one ripped handle, the other, only just barely clinging to the doorknob. Aziraphale eyed it like it was a hornet's nest. 

"Wha-?" Reaching out, he took the thing in hand, being careful not to let the other handle break. With the way his back was hurting, if it landed on the floor he'd have to wait until Anathema came just to get it off the ground. Shutting the door behind him, he dragged his sorry self over to the kitchen counter and place the bag atop it.

Aziraphale gasped as the first thing he caught sight of was his British Bird Guide. "Oh! Who?" He had completely forgotten about it in his haste yesterday. The cover was stained somewhat, which was to be expected, given the soggy state of the grass the day before. Reaching into the bag, he slid the book out. Maybe he could clean it up somehow? He was greeted with another surprise when he caught sight of his camera underneath, another forgotten gem. He dragged it close to his chest, muttering an apology to the poor dear. "How terrible of me to forget you, darling, will you forgive me?" He questioned, brushing stray dust and bits of leaves from the case. A close inspection of the telephoto lens showed that it was undamaged by the drop yesterday, "Thank goodness!" He might be pea-brained at times, but he would have felt dreadful about losing his camera when he got around to remember about it. 

Dwelling on who could have been considerate enough to return his lost items, he set to folding the bag so he could place it in the recycling bin. Something rigid caught his attention, a length of the paper that was a bit thicker than the rest. "Hmmm..." Hurriedly he unfolded the bag, there, at the bottom was a small square of paper. 

Reaching inside, Aziraphale drew it out, realizing belatedly that it was a photograph. The picture was of a nightingale. Scrawled across the front in scratchy handwriting were the words _'Sneaky bugger doesn't hold still for an instant._ ' and underneath, in even smaller letters, _'I like ducks! XO Crowley._ '

Aziraphale dawdled on the name, Crowley, Crowley...he did not know any Crowleys. Then it came to him, "Oh! The gardener!" He stared in open dismay than laughed, a giddy, breathless thing that barely escaped his lips for the tightness in his chest. His eyes lingered on the nightingale's brown plumage and dark eyes. It was in a tree, very high up in a tree if he were judging by the sidewalk glimpsed below. Had the gardener-no, Crowley, he had a name now- had Crowley honestly climbed a tree just for a silly photo of a bird? 

"How ridiculous!" Aziraphale laughed louder at that, shaking his head as he looked the image over. It was a rather good photo for an amateur, only slightly out of focus with a smudge of something on the lens the blurred the left corner a bit. It was also possibly one of the loveliest things someone had ever done for him. Placing the photo on the countertop, he rubbed a thumb over a small crease that he'd made while folding the paper bag. His eyes felt a tad on the watery side, and he dashed at the dampness with the back of his palm before it could fall. His unoccupied thumb moving from the crease to brush over the little 'XO' beside Crowley's name, an interesting touch, this Crowley fellow was such a flirt.

It was sweet, even if Aziraphale thought he might have a poor taste in men. _Or he's desperate._ Wasn't that a horrid thought? _Then don't think it, you silly man._ He scolded himself, stroking his fingers along the edge of the photo. There was nothing to it then. This sort of things deserved a direct, face to face interaction—a heartfelt thanks. Sighing softly, he considered his options.

It had taken three hours to muster the courage to leave his apartment. Now, here Aziraphale was riding the lift down to the first-floor lobby, heart in his throat, and panic aflutter in his veins. _It's alright, just get it done._ He commanded himself, twisting the palm-rest of his crutch in his right hand. The leather jacket took up a predominant place in his left hand, bulky and cumbersome, and maybe a bit dreadful, too. He was undeniably nervous about seeing the other man. So much so that not even the prospect of the foyer could overwhelm the frightful feeling of meeting the gardener once more.

"Crowley. _Crowley._ His name is Crowley." He muttered to the shinny elevator door. A small smiley face had been engraved on the surface by some delinquent. Aziraphale stared at it, forcing himself to smile back. His reflection in the door looked slightly constipated. He dropped the smile. It didn't look natural anyway. _Look normal, don't act a twit, and you'll get through this._ He commanded himself, nodding sharply in an attempt to bolster his confidence. 

The elevator came to a jolting halt, and in front of him, the doors made their customary ding before trundling open. Aziraphale straightened his spine. Good, if he recalled correctly, the groundskeeper residence was down the way, sixth door to the right. He'd just- Aziraphale blinked as his blue eyes came into contact with black dyed jeans and traveled upward, over skinny, sharp defined hips and past a startling peak of navel. Even higher to a torso scantly clad in a tight crop top and shoulders, still glistening with sun warmth and dewy from sweat. Those took up a lot of his sight for a moment. He blushed, finally looking up to greet wildfire red hair and morning-blossom-yellow eyes. 

One red brow was lifted. The smirk on his face was positively sinful.

"Oh." How eloquent. It was all he could say through the rapid rabbit kicks of his heart. 

"Like what you see, Aziraphale?" Those eyes were full of mirth, the sound of his name on that snakey tongue sending a shiver down his crunchy spine.

Aziraphale flushed a brilliant red, likely to match Crowley's hair. Clutching the jacket tight, he ducked his head and frowned at the seamed leather. "Y-you're-that is to say-I-" 

"Ah! My jacket, I forgot about that damned thing." Crowley interrupted, taking mercy on Aziraphale's stuttering soul. Undeterred by Aziraphale's fumbling, he leaned one hip on the doorframe of the elevator, cocking it there in a most enviable way. Aziraphale took a step back, glancing out the lift. No one was around, unsurprising considering it was the middle of a workday. It also meant there was nobody available to distract the situation. "Did you get your package this morning?"

Aziraphale nodded his head, his bangs flopping messily over on eye. "Yes, thank you." He couldn't help the smile that came over him as he recalled the photograph. Crowley smiled back in kind, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Ah, it was nothin', was that the bird you wanted? Seemed to be the one making the most noise, but I know shite about birds-being honest."

Aziraphale laughed, the sound shy and reserved, "They are very noisy, indeed." He'd never minded the sound of bird calls, obviously, but did Crowley find them annoying? "You got it right on the beak, though. That's a nightingale."

"Bit plain, huh?" Crowley teased, scratching his chin with a roll of his shoulder that had his hair flopping about very fashionably. He was like a model. Should be on the cover of a magazine, not twiddling about with roses all day.

Aziraphale blinked. He had grown distracted again. Fumbling for words, he finally thought of something to say that wasn't inane. "It's a lovely photo. I'll cherish it." 

The sound of the foyer door opening had both of them looking over. A young woman stepped through, toddler in tow. The youngling was an adorable tornado, yanking at her mother's arm and shrieking something about a 'sammich.' The mother laughed, fumbling with her keys and making her way down the hall with amicable patience, given the little girl's shouts. 

The automatic doors lingered open behind them, letting in the scent of the city, petrol, and spring breeze. Vehicles sped by, zooming along with an uncomfortable level of speed. Flying contraptions of death, that's what they were. The sound of a car horn blaring resounded through the lobby. 

Aziraphale flinched, ducking his head down to his shoulders and squeezing his eyes closed. It was just the one sound, but it echoed against the marble flooring and empty room. For a moment, he forgot himself, tossed back to a time that he'd much rather forget—the crash of metal on metal, the scream of a car horn—pain, too much pain.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's soft voice interrupted the impending panic attack. "Hey, whatever you heard, it's gone now." There was the gentle brush of fingers against the fuzzy fabric of his waistcoat. It was odd how calming they were, pruning his panic down to manageable levels.

Aziraphale heaved in a calming breath, opening his eyes and nodding his head. "Yeah-yes, ta. So sorry, I should be going." Fumbling with his cane Aziraphale shoved at the button for his floor, urging the lift doors closed with a shove of his thumb to the button. Crowley didn't protest, just stepped back from the lift, and gave him some much-needed space. 

"Alright, off with you my, frightened duckling." Aziraphale looked up at that, eyes catching on bright, mirth filled eyes. The smile on his cheeks was amused, like Aziraphale was somehow entertaining. Like he wasn't running away from a car horn like a child. 

"You are ridiculous," Aziraphale admitted, head cocked in wonder.

"Keep saying that, and I'll get a complex." Crowley teased playfully, moving to follow the closing doors so he could keep Aziraphale in his sights, "See you later, Angel." Came a cheerful call just as the doors closed and the lift took off, heading towards the upper levels. Aziraphale shook his head in response, though the redhead couldn't see him. Turning his gaze up to the fluorescent lights, he wondered if anything could ruin that man's mood.

Stumbling off the lift, Aziraphale urged himself down the hall and to his door. He drew in calming breaths. All was well. It was just one measly car horn. He'd heard worse. He went to the foyer every other day and usually handled the clang of traffic with more class. Fumbling the door open, he slipped inside and shut it behind him. Leaning on the frame, he heaved a relieved sigh.

Sanctuary.

It was only when he looked down that he noticed the jacket still clasped in his hands.

"Oh, bullocks."

"We really should get you an aide, someone to help with the heavy lifting," Anathema announced as she placed his groceries in the kitchen. Turning, she leaned her rail-thin self against the edge of the counter, lounging there like she owned the place. He'd invited her in without a complaint nor mention of the day before, best let dead dogs lie, and all that. Aziraphale hummed under his breath, acknowledging her words but choosing to ignore them in favor of making a spot of tea. He'd broken out the teapot for today, something about making it the traditional way soothing his bones. His eyes landed on the leather coat he'd painstakingly folded and placed beside the toaster earlier. He smiled, somehow not in the least upset at the memory of his and Crowley's earlier interaction. 

"You're smiling. Why are you smiling?" Anathema questioned, her eyes narrowed down to an accusatory squint.

Aziraphale looked up from his musing, casting her a put upon stare. "I smile all the time!" He announced, fiddling with the knob on his stovetop so his fingers would be occupied with something.

"No, you grimace or pout. This is a smile _. This_ is a secret smile." Anathema announced, slapping the countertop with a cheeky smile of her own that stated she knew something he did not. Aziraphale gave her a side-eye, sighing under his breath. She was observant, wasn't she? 

"You look lovely in that plaid," Aziraphale announced, hoping she'd fall for the bait.

"Oh, thank you." She glanced down at her green two-piece ensemble, blushing prettily, "But, compliments will get you nowhere, young man. What is your secret smile hiding?" She questioned, accent thickening to a purring drawl. She stepped into his space so she could press a finely manicured finger to his nose, her eyes mischievous and thoughtful.

Aziraphale patted at the offending digit, laughing at her antics. "Young man? I'm near ten years your senior!" 

Anathema shrugged, waggling a box of biscuits at him before placing them beside him on the counter in preparation for tea. "You're a sneak, Ezra. I'll find out your secrets." She declared.

"I don't know what you're talking about, dearest, tea?" He snagged a couple of his fancier cups. He'd play mother for the moment and serve them both up. She tutted, throwing her hands about in a dramatic display of frustration. 

"Yes, I'll have your tea, you damn tease." She snapped, turning to ruffle through a bag and collect the pint of milk and toss it unceremoniously into the fridge. 

"Watch the peaches dearest, hate to see them bruised." Aziraphale reminded as he plopped a sugar cube into the bottom of both their cups. He didn't use the bottom half of his fridge. It was too difficult to bend down and reach the lower drawers. Thanks to that, everything tended to be on the top two shelves. Vegetables smooshed up beside fruit and sauces and jam—a haphazard, disorganized thing.

"You and these peaches, I think it's the only thing you eat," Anathema announced, putting a bag of another four in to sit with the last two. Aziraphale shrugged, no use in denying it. He hadn't grown tired of the stone fruit yet. That and toast made up the bulk of his diet at the moment.

"Come on, sit for a bit." Aziraphale urged, allowing her to take his cup and her own and settle them in at the table. Her supporting hand at his elbow was unexpected but welcome, as he settled into the chair with a hitched gasp and a sigh. 

She broke open the box of biscuits, muttering something about not having lunch as she popped a whole one into her mouth before dividing out a few more for them both. Aziraphale smiled and accepted the two she offered. They were good, and for once, he was feeling neither anxious nor depressed, so he bit in cheerfully. 

"I'm going to get together some resumes for an assistant. We've waited long enough." She proclaimed as she swallowed her bite. Aziraphale sighed, dropping his last bite of biscuit to the plate and peering at her. He supposed this was what she had wanted to speak to him about yesterday.

"I've taken to your company. I don't know how I'd feel about another person." He admitted morosely, reaching for his spoon, so his worried hands had something to fiddle with. Anathema leaned forward earnestly.

"Ezra, I'm not going anywhere. I'll still come by. But you're back isn't getting much better, and neither are....other things." She skirted the issue, the concern in her eyes stinging. "I think you could use a hand. Once, maybe twice a week. Someone to pick up the laundry, run your errands, things like that," She leaned forward, eager to get her point across, no doubt. When Anathema got something in her head, she wouldn't let it go until it happened. "'Sides, if we can get someone with a physical therapy background, maybe they can help with your mobility issues?"

Aziraphale groaned, but...that didn't sound so bad. His last physical therapist had moved some months ago, she'd been a sweetheart, but he couldn't bring himself to replace her. To top it off, laundry was hell in a wicker basket to do. He usually ran the washer the day Anathema intended to visit, so she could swap it out before she left. Then he'd have to collect it himself. The basement wasn't handicap accessible and a chore to get down to, with all those stairs, and while he could get an in-suite washer dryer set, even those offered a certain level of difficulty. 

"Alright, fine, but don't you dare call up that Beezlebub fellow again. They were horrible to work with. Like tiptoeing through hell."

"Of course not, but what would you want if you could have your dream assistant?" Anathema broke out her notebook, dragging forth a pen from somewhere at her waist. "Tell me all the details. I'm gonna make this one stick this time." Aziraphale leaned forward, chuckling under his breath as Anathema eagerly started to take notes. He could think of a thing or two he'd appreciate in an assistant. With a little encouragement on her part, he even managed to say most of them out loud. The two of them worked over the ins and outs together, and it reassured him to have some control of the process. 

Some time into it all, he got up to refill their tea. He watched Anathema consider offering to get it for him and was glad when she didn't say anything aloud. He wasn't a complete bed case. He could handle the teapot, for God's sake. Refilling her cup gave him a little feeling of triumph. She hummed her thanks, eyes drifting to look out the window as she blew across the steaming liquid with rose-red lips.

"Oh look, it seems your gardener is getting out the big guns." Aziraphale jerked his head up from pouring his tea, following her gaze out to the garden below. There he was, Crowley in all his wild glory. He seemed at one with the bushes, bits of sticks, and plant life stuck in his hair, as he took to pruning the topiary that usually decorated Aziraphale's side of the garden. Aziraphale watched bicep's bulge as he snapped unruly branches down, wrangling the bushes into some form or another only his eye could see. 

Aziraphale sighed, smiling as the other man wrestled with an unusually thick branch. The way his lips moved spoke of particularly creative obscenities.

Anathema snorted her tea. "That's the secret smile?! Oh...my...god." She starred at Aziraphale, then at Crowley, then back again. "Well, you have good taste. He's a snack." 

That had Aziraphale snorting in turn, "Anathema! He's not food...he's...Crowley." 

As if on cue, Crowley happened to look up, his eyes catching on Aziraphale as if drawn there by a magnet. Aziraphale squawked, dropping down to hide his face against the table.

"Well, Crowley's hot!" Anathema announced to her tea, winking cheekily down at Crowley before slurping at her tea.

That was....undeniable. Did she have to be so vulgar, though? "Americans..." Sitting up, he was just in time to catch Crowley tossing a salute their way, a wicked smirk lighting his face. Anathema giggled, waving back and jabbing Aziraphale in the shoulder. "You're so screwed!" 

Not wanting to appear rude, Aziraphale waved as well, ignoring the blush on his cheeks.

"He called me Aziraphale today...twice," Aziraphale whispered, turning his head to his teacup.

Anathema paused, biscuit midway to her mouth. "And?" 

"I didn't mind it." He admitted with a wince, worried he'd hurt her feelings since he'd all but yelled at her not to call him by his full name the day before. 

Anathema blinked smokey eyes, resting her hand on her chin and considering Aziraphale with those shrewd eyes. "Well, then." She drawled, tapping her pinky nail on her lower lip. "I've got news for you, Ezra. You are one-hundred percent, most definitely, screwed." 

She snatched the half-eaten biscuit he threw at her out of the air with a chortle. He couldn't help but laugh as well until he was breathless, and his back ached. Below Crowley tolled on, and if he so happened to bend towards Aziraphale's window a little more often than not, neither of them could complain about the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, getting smothered in feels and squishy stuff. I love this dynamic. Crowley is just a bit of a minx, he so knows what he wants and is going to get it!
> 
> I had to paint Crowley's photo, a little nightingale for the Aziraphale!
> 
> Share your thoughts! Comments, kudos would be loved!


	3. Finding Something New

A few days after their fateful run-in at the lift, Aziraphale woke up to a haphazard display of color littering the garden bed in front of his sitting-room window. Where once the purple petunias had reigned, now there was a swath of yellow daffodils and pink peonies, blue irises, and baby blue hyacinths. Aziraphale stared, the bright bursts of color lovely and startling to the eye. 

Still groggy from a rough night's sleep that not even his sleep tablet had helped, Aziraphale fumbled for the crank to his window. He twisted the pane outward to let in the morning breeze, settled into his chair to lean into the outside world, and peer downward. It would be the perfect time to take a picture, and he pondered at the location of his camera, thinking he should take it out. His telephoto lens would zoom in and give him a better look at the brilliant display. There were at least half a dozen other plants that he did not know the names of, some of them nothing but bright bundles of color, indistinguishable as individual shoots, but just as beautiful, even without names. 

A cough interrupted his musing. Turning his head toward the sound, Aziraphale flushed as he caught sight of Crowley. Perched on a bench, the groundskeeper was only a few meters from the newly laid garden. Aziraphale yelped, reaching for his curtains before yanking them closed with an indignant squeak of disapproval. The sound of Crowley's laughter was distorted by the thin cloth, as cheerful and vibrant as the flowers he'd planted.

"You are a sneaky snake of a man!" Aziraphale shouted down, peaking through a slit in the curtains, one blue eye glowering at Crowley. His face was turned up toward Aziraphale and the rising sun. Features alight with a smile fit for the dawn. His fingers, bone-thin and surprisingly delicate, even at this distance, were wrapped around a disposable cup of some variety. There was one of those complex coffee logos on the side, labeling it both posh and expensive. He made a striking figure, even with soil staining his hands. It made Aziraphale feel like a disheveled rat. Flustered, he patted at his sleep mussed hair, hoping to tame the curls down to something a little less wild. Feeling somewhat better, his fingers eased off their death grip on the curtain, and he settled on leaning his chin and his palm, letting the fabric drift open.

"Morning!" Crowley called cheerfully, raising his cup in greeting, seemingly unaware, or uncaring, of Aziraphale's state of dress. "Like the new look?" He questioned, indicating the garden with a flare of his hand.

"Good morning," Aziraphale greeted the lone figure, "It's lovely, truly, you've outdone yourself!" He admitted, laughing at the way the other man's chest puffed a bit with pride. "Don't get a big head now, you silly thing!" He teased that big grin that lit up Crowley's face, unable to help but smile back. He couldn't really blame him for being prideful. There was something to be pleased with, there in the vibrant new layout and the lovely drip of flower petals placed just so. Crowley was an artist in his own right. 

"Too late, Angel!" Crowley announced cheerfully, dropping back into a lazy slouch that had him taking up most of the bench with his long sprawling limbs. "I left you a cup at your door." He added, waving his drink about by way of explanation.

"Wha?" Aziraphale stammered, blinking lamely as he glanced over his shoulder towards the door to his flat. Who was this man? He'd never been chased so thoroughly in his life! It's a miracle Crowley got any work done, with all the flirting he prescribed too. Holding up a finger, because words were beyond him at the moment, he dragged his sorry bones out of his chair. It was a chore he took no pleasure in allowing Crowley to see, even from such a far distance as they were currently standing. 

Putting one foot in front of the other, Aziraphale was of the growing opinion that this had to be some sort of joke. That garden had to take the precious man-hours. He must have been up with the sun. He didn't know what Crowley was up to, but he certainly wasn't worthy of an early morning foray into landscaping, nor a trip to a fancy coffee spot. 

No wonder he needed coffee.

Speaking of, Aziraphale eased open his entryway door and tutted at the sight of the overpriced cup of liquid that was currently hanging from the knob. Crowley had fashioned a little sling out of gardening twine, the loops of knots creating a makeshift basket. It was at the perfect height for him to reach. No bending or gymnastics necessary.

Aziraphale slipped the twine from the doorknob. Humming a sigh at the warmth seeping through to his hand and the bitter scent of fresh coffee. While he didn't consider himself a coffee drinker, this particular cup sounded very appealing indeed. 

Settling back at the window, Aziraphale had no honest idea of what to say. He'd never had someone gift him something so simple, yet so touching. Clutching his cup close, he decided on taking a sip of coffee instead. It left his tongue burning, but the barista had added a dash of cream that softened the heat down to bearable levels. After a second, he wondered if he should have let it burn his tastebuds off as the noxious taste of burnt beans blossomed on his tongue and settled into a harsh tang on his soft pallet. He nearly choked but managed to swallow it down with a hiss. Not wanting to offend, Aziraphale was pleased with his poker face. His wince was no doubt well hidden by the distance between them.

Crowley watched him take a sip, his brow raised and visible even from this distance. 

"It's lovely, much appreciated!" Aziraphale called down. Oh god, he could taste his own breath. He took another sip if only to drown out the last.

"Is that so?" Crowley brought his coffee to his lips, his smile sharp and nothing but teeth. His inner shark making an appearance. "Well, mine taste like burnt garbage."

Aziraphale sputtered, making an indignant sound of protest even as he spit out what was in his mouth. "Oh, thank heavens! I didn't want to say anything, but this is horrid!" Aziraphale admitted, wincing even as he said it.

"You're face!" Crowley chuckled out loud, pointing a finger up at Aziraphale before taking another sip with a grimace. "Gah, it's absolute drivel."

It took a moment for Aziraphale to realize he was being teased, and then he couldn't help but giggle back. Covering his mouth with one hand, he shook his head. "You did that on purpose, you beast! If it's so awful, why are you still drinking it?"

"Bought it, didn't I? Waste not and all that." Crowley explained with a roll of his shoulder and a squint of yellow eyes. Smug bastard.

"Hmmm, your stomach is made of harder stuff than mine." It was a fact, muscles, Crowley's stomach was made of muscles, taut, delightful muscles. Why did his top have to continually ride up like that? It was like the man was allergic to an adequately sized shirt. Aziraphale found it all very...distracting. He forced his eyes up. No one liked to be ogled, even if they were ripe for ogling, thrown about with limbs and joints sprawled just so—the hips on that man. Perfection.

He and Crowley sat in comfortable silence. Crowley seemed to be enjoying the sun. He fed off of it like one of his plants, soaking it up through tanned flesh and thriving on it. Aziraphale was mostly in the shade, so he would have to wait to gain the same benefits. He didn't mind, Crowley was a treat for the eyes, and it felt oddly comfortable, this silence between the two of them interrupted only by the calls of the city and the chitter of squirrels. 

After a bit, Aziraphale stood up to get himself something actually palatable to drink. Setting the kettle to boil, he found himself adding another cup's worth of water and blushed at the thought that mucked about through his head.

 _I should offer him some. It's probably better than whatever he's drinking._ Feeling surprisingly brave, and maybe a little bit brash, he nodded, heading back to the window to open his mouth and do just that. Aziraphale paused, pink lips parted to make his offer, and let the words die on his tongue with a soft huff. Crowley wasn't alone anymore.

A dark-haired man, maybe a few years younger, but certainly nowhere near _too_ young, had settled down on the bench beside Crowley. He had an admirable mop of brown hair and a sort of awkwardly endearing posture. They knew each other, by the looks of it. Bodies twined in close, and heads bowed to share some secret whispered words. The younger man nodded and reached out, resting a hand on Crowley's chest and asking something. Their conversation wasn't near loud enough to be heard at this distance, but it made something in Aziraphale's chest tight. Fiddling with his cup, he looked away- a hurtful ache of disappointment starting to take up residence in his belly. 

_Oh, get over yourself._ Aziraphale commanded his heart, reminding it that flirting was rarely a promise of something more. God, they looked comfortable, happy even. The sun suited their complexions, and they suited each other. Earthy and warm. What's more, the younger man represented everything Aziraphale did not. Healthy, happy, not holed up in a flat like a nutter. They made wonderful, horrible, sense. 

What didn't make sense was an energetic, vibrant gardener cozying up to a frightened shut-in with back issues. It made Aziraphale feel lemon bitter. Tart and sour, that's what he was. He didn't like it, not at all. He'd never been the type for jealousy before. It left a bad taste in his mouth, bitter as the burnt coffee that had taken up residence on his table. Jealousy, it was an emotion he did not want to grow used to.

Hurriedly he cranked the window closed, shutting out both the summer breeze and their soft muttering. It wasn't proper to listen in on their conversation, and he hardly wanted to seem meddlesome. They were having a moment, and he would not be the one to interrupt it.

Maybe they were once lovers, lost touch over the years, and life had tossed them together at the helm of a garden, love reawakened by the sight of each other from across the grassy plaza.

It sounded terribly romantic. Aziraphale smiled into his tea, sipping at it delicately. Yes, best not to think of it in a negative light. He truly only wanted the best for Crowley. And considering the circumstances, most would agree that Aziraphale wasn't the best peach in the bunch.

 _Let them be happy._ Aziraphale chided himself, draining the dregs of his tea and dragging himself from his chair. He'd only been awake for a few hours, but he had a sudden, overwhelming desire to just sleep. There was nothing pressing to occupy his time.

So he did.

Another day found him at his computer, idly editing a paper on the migration pattern of the Waxwing. Crowley's jacket kept him company, slung over the back of his other dining chair, indifferent to the papers strewn about. Jackets, it seemed, made poor research companions, even if they smelt of cologne and rich earth.

He'd had his field hand, one Mister Shadwell, out in the depths of the Scandinavian wilderness for the winter months of last year. He was a rough-edged fellow with poor hygiene, but he had an eye for birds and an even better hand for note-taking. They had been hoping to catch the early signs of the bird's mass migration patterns. Alas, the conditions had been dreadful. The birds tended towards migration in early winter but only headed towards the UK when food scarcity and population density grew to disparate. 

Shadwell had stayed the season, and well into spring, moving with the birds, per Aziraphale's directives. He was home now, waiting out the year until next fall, in the hopes of seeing a true migration. His wife, Tracy, would no doubt be pleased. She hated it when he went away on research trips.

Aziraphale had nothing to do but pick his paper to death until then, fussing over each word and turn of phrase, until he found himself at the cusp of the research they knew and the blank end of the page that would someday be filled with the knowledge they would gain.

Giving the written word a pause, he flicked through the photos Shadwell had taken. They lie strewn about in front of him, each labeled with a date and number so that they could be easily cataloged. Aziraphale was at a loss; none of the photographs were good enough. He itched to grab his camera and hop on a plane. To delve into the icy forest and get _that_ shot, the one that would make it all worthwhile. Photograph number four was focused on the branch in front of the bird, not the Waxwing itself. Number seven had snow on the lens, as did the next four pictures in a row. Photo fourteen had potential, and then he noticed Shadwell's finger in the frame. Aziraphale groaned, dragging his hands threw his hair and cursing his own inability to do _something_!

He used to be a world-renowned photographer. He had photos published in National Geographic! His own research was used by ecologists across the UK. Now here he was, alone, in a flat with little else but his own bogbrained mind for company. He longed for the hunt, for the search and the spring into action, for the dash of feathers and the blustering flight of flocks.

He'd go mad if only he weren't already. Absolute bonkers, that's what he was. Cursing under his breath, Aziraphale shoved his laptop away and watched with stunned dismay as it tumbled right off the tabletop, crumbling to the ground with a startling crash, sending the keys of the keyboard scattering across the room.

 _Dammit!_ This was not the hunt he had wished for.

Anathema found him struggling to drag the "M" button of his laptop from its hiding place beneath the living room ottoman. His crutch had neither fingers nor dexterity, it would seem, and the damned button was causing quite the trouble, sticking to the fibers of the dark green carpet. 

"And what has happened now?" Anathema questioned, from behind him and just to his left. Aziraphale groaned, he'd let her in with a yell of greeting, but that didn't mean she had to be so nosy. 

"I dropped my laptop, I think it's salvageable, but the damn buttons have flown the coop!" He admitted with a put upon sigh, sagging back on the settee and glaring at the piece of plastic. 

Anathema hummed, bending and snatching up the button with ease. Aziraphale scoffed, holding out his hand and snatching it from her fingers. "Yes, yes, you show off. Now, tell me why you're here." He demanded, popping the piece of plastic into place. Now all there was to do was find the "3" and the "L."

Anathema considered him for a moment before shaking her head. "Duties second. I am famished. Care for some peaches?" She cajoled, already on her way to the kitchen, without waiting for his response. Aziraphale blinked, glancing at the clock, it was well past lunch, and to be honest, he couldn't recall if he'd attempted at breakfast. 

Had he even taken his tablets today? His lack of pain would suggest he had, but...

"Yes, alright. Bring my medicine tray, if you don't mind, dear." He called, turning to catch a glimpse of her skirt as she passed. She was wearing royal blue. It stood out strikingly against her skin. She always looked so lovely in colors. His own would undoubtedly wash out to oatmeal white if he were to try and wear anything so vibrant.

"I have some hire pamphlets I want to go over with you today," Anathema admitted from her spot by the kitchen cupboard. She navigated his space with the ease of someone who knew precisely where everything was. And well, she would. She'd been the one to help him reorganize and make his home more access friendly after the accident.

He groaned, rubbing a hand over his brow, but didn't put up any further protest. He had told her he was open to getting an assistant. It wasn't her fault if she took him at his word. "Right, right. Of course."

Anathema came back with her treasures, and she'd found quite a few. Cheese and peaches, along with a couple of savory biscuits, all laid out on the board with a delicate hand and an eye for placement. 

"Oh, that looks lovely, dear," Aziraphale admitted, smiling up at her just as she plopped down on the settee across from him. She yelped upon landing, quickly sitting up and peering down at the seat cushion. Snatching something up, she turned and tossed it in Aziraphale's direction. He snatched it out of the air and grinned at the "3" button in his palm, turning to pop it into its rightful place on his laptop.

"Well, if it were up to you, all this food would go to rot." Anathema singsonged as she settled back into place, popping a square of cheese into her mouth midway through so that it muffled her words. 

"Please, dear, don't mother me." Aziraphale scolded, knowing precisely what she was hinting at. He did not want to discuss his recent disinterest in food. He couldn't really explain it, nor did he want to. To throw her off, he took up a peach and a bit into it, enjoying the light flavor and chilled juices that tingled on his tongue. Anathema held up her hands in surrender, shrugging her shoulders. Taking up his tablet holder, he was relieved to see that he had indeed taken them that morning. 

"Alright then, show me these people you'd like me to hire," Aziraphale demanded, shifting on the couch to ease a twinge in his spine. That took him away from the tray of snacks, but Anathema had come prepared. She handed him off a plate with a selection of everything before dusting her fingers and reaching for her bag.

"Right. Just three for today. These are the ones I think you'll like the best, but if you don't, there's more. So no pressure Ezra." Anathema slid three blue folders from her bags, offering them over with a flourish.

Aziraphale popped the rest of his cheese in his mouth, taking the folders to read them over. Everything seemed to be in order. On paper, these men and women were quality candidates. 

Two had physical therapy backgrounds, but only one had the secondary knowledge of an assisted living professional. The last came from an elderly care facility and was looking for something closer to home. None of them fit his exact specifications. Understandable since they were asking a lot of his would-be assistant. He honestly hadn't expected someone who would be comfortable buying him groceries, aiding in the everyday essentials, and with the physical therapy. Compromises would have to be made, he was sure.

"What do you think?" Anathema questioned from where she lounged, raising one dark eyebrow once he closed the last folder.

"They all seem well qualified. Are they aware of everything?" Aziraphale questioned, tapping a finger nervously on the blue folio. He hated making decisions especially when they involved himself. 

"To an extent, I didn't want to give anything private away. They know you're disabled and housebound. So do you want to meet them?" Anathema questioned, leaning her chin on her steepled fingers.

"Well, yes-"

"Great! I have the appointments set for an hour from now. Come on, eat up." Anathema announced cheerfully, taking his surprisingly empty plate and piling it with more bits and pieces. She looked inordinately pleased with herself. 

Aziraphale barely noticed, just stared at her mutely. His ears ringing with her words. 

Today. 

Guests. 

_Oh, God._ Scrambling for his tablet container, he hunted through it and snagged an anxiety tab. Anathema watched, concerned but undeterred, offering him a glass of water to swallow it down. 

"Ezra, don't worry, sweetie, it won't take long. You'll get a feel for them, and they'll be off. I'm bringing it up so suddenly because I know you'd worry and think about it all day and night if you had warning." Anathema explained, taking his plate. He was spilling food from it, his hands shook so badly.

"Anathema, I don't-that's not how these things work!" Aziraphale gasped, reaching for his crutch and dragging himself to his feet. He couldn't breathe. Strangers were coming to his house. Uninvited! This was a nightmare! A fiasco! 

He spun in place, stumbling over his own feet. The house was a disaster and not nearly as put together as it should be. His tea mugs lined the bottom of the sink, and the books would need to be dusted. His table was littered with research. Where would everyone sit? 

He had only two chairs, for heaven's sake! 

"I need to-I have to clean up. I'm not ready for guests, Anathema!" Aziraphale's ears were definitely ringing, the classic onset of one of his anxiety attacks. He couldn't hear through his own heartbeat, and he might be feeling a bit light-headed. His throat was growing tight, making it difficult to breathe. Desperately, he worked at the knot of his bowtie, blunt nails digging into the column of his throat in his effort to release it. In his panic, he barely felt the scrape of them against his skin. "No. No, this won't do, I can't do this today." With the knot undone, he managed to get out the words.

"Ezra, Ezra?!" Anathema's hand on his shoulder had him stumbling to a halt. "Okay, I understand, I've stepped out of line, and I'm sorry. No one will come today. I'll cancel the meetings and reschedule whenever you want." Her voice was far off and distant, but somehow the meaning came through. He choked from relief, nodding his head and running his hand through his hair, clutching the strands and pulling in an effort to extract himself out of the impending anxiety fog. Pacing the small confines of his sitting room, he tried to calm down. 

"Don't do that again, Anathema. This is my house!" Aziraphale ordered, looking around at his four walls. Walls that held bookshelves cascading with knowledge, cozy furniture from decades ago, carefully picked out for maximum comfort. He'd designed the place to be his little haven. Yet the room felt small and like it was getting smaller.

The thought of strangers invading his space made him feel trapped, enclosed. All he wanted to do was escape; he needed an out but had nowhere to run to. For the first time, he didn't feel safe in his own home, a bird trapped in a cage. "I-I have to go..." He whispered, fingers clenching around the barrel of his crutch.

Aziraphale wasn't aware of leaving his flat or even taking the lift down to the foyer. Mutely he stared at the smiley face on the lift door, unable to bring himself to smile back this time. He needed to be somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't here. Everywhere he looked was the same old, monotonous location he had memorized each crack in the marble floor, each corner of the foyer proper, and every doorway between. Walked these halls a dozen times, unable to move beyond them.

A bird in a cage was an apt turn of phrase.

That was all he was.

Trapped in a jail of his own creation. 

The lift expelled him outward, and he trudged down the hall, knowing he must look a mess, but uncaring. He could feel Anathema's presence at his back, her worried gaze burrowing into his spine. She let him flee, sticking close by, no doubt to make sure he didn't hurt himself. Aziraphale ignored her. She couldn't help him. He needed an out. He needed something new, something fresh.

Aziraphale found it, crouched by the large planters that framed either side of the outer doorway. Crowley, the mythical beast. His long hair dragged up into a messy bun on top of his head, strands of it snaking free like Medusa's hair, seemingly with a mind of their own. Crouched as he was, his legs hugged the circumference of a pot, his fingers knuckle deep in the dark soil it contained. Memories of the young man from the other day, Crowley's mysterious friend, were forgotten in his desperate state of mind.

The sight was like a breath of calming air, a gasp of oxygen in an otherwise depleted atmosphere. Aziraphale stumbled to a halt just inside the doorway, unable to make himself step outside, even with the need to fly away digging deep. 

"Hello, my Persnickety Parsnip!" Crowley greeted him, not even bothering to look up from his current project but seemingly aware of Aziraphale's presence none-the-less.

It took a moment for him to understand Crowley was speaking to him. When he did, Aziraphale croaked out a laugh and rocked on his feet, dragging in desperate gasps of fresh air that blew in through the open door. 

"Hello, Crowley." Crowley did look up at that, the sound of his strained voice breaking the gardener's concentration. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses today, but Aziraphale could still see the way he looked from Aziraphale to Anathema and then back again. 

"You alright, Angel?" He questioned, drawing himself upright and dusting dirt from his hands. 

_No, I'm not alright, I'm trapped! I'm trapped, and I can't get out!_ Aziraphale couldn't speak through the panic in his throat, couldn't get the words he needed to so desperately say out. He was going to drown in them, to break under all of the strain. _I used to be something, please, I used to be something!_ He squeezed his eyes closed, brow furrowed with internal pain. A single tear spilling down his cheek, it felt like a turbulent storm, for all its small scale.

"I see." Crowley seemed to understand, and when Aziraphale opened his eyes again, he watched Crowley step inside, his expression stormy. His eyes lingered on Aziraphal's neck, stepping close to touch a finger to the scraps Aziraphale had made on the pale flesh while trying to undo his bowtie. Aziraphale jolted at the skin on skin contact. Gasping in a ragged breath of air, he focused on the sensation of someone touching him, desperate for some sort of distraction from the horrible thoughts storming through his mind. Crowley seemed to consider him for a moment, brow furrowed with worry before a dark glower settled onto his face. 

If it were in any way directed towards him, the expression might have had Aziraphale fleeing. Instead, those dark spectacles trained on Anathema, where she stood hovering just a few feet away. "Gone and put your foot in it again, eh?" He questioned, dropping his hand from Aziraphale's neck and moving to take Aziraphale by the hand. Aziraphale watched as long dirty fingers twined through his own pristine ones. His hand shook in Crowley's, and the other man seemed to notice, giving his fingers a squeeze, and then a soft tug. 

"You look thirsty. Let me get you a drink, Angel. I promise it won't taste horrible this time." Aziraphale nodded, barely computing the words but more than willing to take any escape route at this moment. 

"Please." He whispered, stumbling after Crowley, only to have one of those warm palms attach themselves to his back, settling there to steady his steps. Crowley leaned in close, body fitting to his, intimate and comforting despite their only recent acquaintance.

"I hardly believe he needs an escort, but we'll be in flat nine if you must know, Mother." Crowley snarked as they left Anathema behind. She scowled as she watched them pass with a furrowed brow and uncertain eyes. 

"Be nice," Aziraphale whispered, casting an apologetic glance her way, even if he couldn't look at her for long. He was sure that he'd feel horrible later. His frustration was from a multitude of things, not just her actions, but for now, all he knew was panic and hurt.

Crowley let him go only for the time it took to get the keys from his pocket and then unlock the doors. Aziraphale followed him inside, gaze locked on the dark wood floors. He wrung his hands, gasping in ragged breathes to try and calm himself. Behind him, the door closed.

"Thank you." He whispered to Crowley's converse shoes as they paced back to his side.

Crowley snorted, tossing his keys in a tray by the door, turning to look over Aziraphale with a concerned eye. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to give Aziraphale a hug or something similarly comforting, but he didn't, seemingly thinking better of the gesture."Don't get offended, Angel, but that woman has her head up her arse." He declared, instead.

Aziraphale laughed, the sound only a little hysterical. "That's because you don't know her. She's a gift, who doesn't know boundaries." Aziraphale managed, not able to talk badly about his friend even if he tried. It wasn't her fault he couldn't handle things, like normal, everyday interactions.

Crowley harrumphed. "We will have to agree to disagree. Anyway, welcome, to Crowley's lair."

Aziraphale blinked, lifting his head as he came to the realization that he was actually inside somewhere _new_. His breath hitched at how green it was—plants, plants on every available surface. They were lining the walls, in pots on the floor, and hanging from the ceiling by rope cozies. A shock of color against the muted greys and blacks of the sitting room. Which lent a striking backdrop to the vibrant greens of house plants. 

The layout was similar to Aziraphale's own flat, though possibly double in size, one of the perks of being a groundkeeper, maybe. Where Aziraphale's house was crowded floor to ceiling with various odds and ends, Crowley's was open and airy. The only indications of his living there were a pair of socks dangling from the back end of the sofa and a glass of something resting in the sitting room table. Otherwise, it looked like a scene from a home magazine, pristine.

"It's...lovely. You have an affinity for plants." The weight on his chest eased a little at the change in his surroundings. This is what he needed, something new to feast his eyes on, something different. It might just be another door in the cage, but he was grateful for the change in scenery. He breathed in slowly, drawing himself down from the precipice of anxiety. The smell of Crowley's cologne was everywhere. Aziraphale inhaled it, not sure when the scent had come to mean calm and comfort. 

"Is Crowley the full sum of your name, or is there a first part?" Aziraphale asked, following after Crowley as the other man guided them into the kitchen, urging Aziraphale to lean on the kitchen island with a light slap to the black speckled marble. Aziraphale leaned on it gratefully, pressing his sweaty palm to the cool countertop. The center was dolled up with the usual salt and pepper jars, along with some four square napkins and a candle.

"Ahh, are you trying to find out all my secrets, Angel?" Crowley crooned, walking to the other side of the island so that he could wash his hands in the sink, his broad shoulders on display. The soil sloughed off, darkening the waters before running clean. "Well, if you must know, there's the Anthony part," Glancing over his shoulder, he raised one brow before returning to whatever he was doing. Shaking his hands to rid them of the water, he reached into a high cupboard, digging around until he found two long-stemmed wine glasses. They dangled from his fingers like crystalline teardrops, clinking together lightly. 

"Only my parents call me that, though," Crowley explained with a wink. 

"Anthony." Aziraphale rolled the name around on his tongue, reaching for a napkin to dab at his still teary eyes. His anxiety meds were kicking in, slowly but surely. Though he didn't have the added benefit of the sleeping tablet to help move it along, he was beginning to feel calmer, less like the world might implode, and more as if he could just exist in it. Or maybe it was just Crowley's presence, that was a thought. "You don't like it?" He questioned, thinking of his own name dilemma. Aziraphale. Ezra. He hated to hear the full thing out loud, even if he still thought of himself as Aziraphale. The name said by anyone else was like being burned. Until Crowley, that is.

"Hmm, actually doesn't sound so bad coming from you, Aziraphale," Crowley admitted flipping the wine glasses, so they sat flat on the countertop. Aziraphale smiled.

 _Not so bad at all_. He thought, cheeks tingling.

"Now then. Time for you to answer a question of my own." Crowley stated, leaning against the counter ominously.

Aziraphale cringed, thinking Crowley would want to know what had brought on this most recent episode. Instead, the other man bent down, disappearing behind the countertop. He reappeared with a flourish, holding up two separate wine bottles, one in each hand—a corkscrew dangling from a red-painted pinky nail. The varnish only slightly chipped from its foray into the dirt.

"Red or White? This is a life-altering decision. You'll have to choose wisely." Crowley announced, brows rising above the cusps of his sunglasses. So expressive, those brows. Aziraphale laughed, ducking his head and shaking it. 

"You are ridiculous!" Aziraphale exclaimed. He never did what Aziraphale expected. The exact opposite, actually.

"There's that word again. I'll have to start taking it as a compliment, and since you can't make up your mind. White it is!" The grin that cracked Crowley's lips was delightful as he waved around the bottle of white wine triumphantly.

"What?! You didn't even let me pick. I'll have the red, you scoundrel!" Aziraphale smiled cheekily at the further raised brow, lifting his nose in mock disdain.

"Oh, you are a persnickety parsnip. Very well, Red will do." 

"Am I to take that as a compliment as well?" Aziraphale questioned, flinching at the sound of the cork popping under Crowley's nimble fingers.

Crowley gave a hoot of approval, tossing aside the cork and screw in favor of pouring them each a glass. "Oh yes, that's the highest of compliments, dear Aziraphale. Parsnips are an underrated vegetable." He explained, as though that were reason enough to call someone a parsnip. When the first wine glass was full enough for two, he moved on to the next, "Tell me when?" 

Aziraphale had him stop when his own glass was only partially full. Alcohol didn't mix well with his medicine, but a little wouldn't hurt. It was nice to be given a choice without having to state his reasoning aloud. Crowley seemed good at that, never stepping on toes. Letting Aziraphale decide the hows and the whats of things. Control, it was something he lacked and sorely craved.

"Ahh-ha!" Crowley tinked the bottle to rid it of the last droplets before stoppering it back up. "Perfect, a little sip to take the edge off." He announced cheerily, sucking a stray drop off his thumb. He looked lovely, framed against the backdrop of his deep brown -almost black- cabinets, bottle in hand, and a sway to his hips as he stored it in the fridge. Aziraphale looked away, smoothing the wrinkles out of his napkin to preoccupy himself.

Taking up their respective glasses, they moved over to a small breakfast nook, made up of a table and benches, with wood that matched the kitchen cabinets and grey cushions. It butted up against a window, which let in the afternoon sun. Aziraphale eyed the passing traffic dubiously. At ground level, as they were, the vehicles felt to close. He much preferred a bit of distance between himself and the streets of London. 

"Different view from yours, I'm sure," Crowley observed, reaching a hand to pull the table out with a tug, his bicep flexing. Aziraphale flushed at the show of courtesy. There was no way he'd be able to wiggle his way into the bench. His spine just didn't work that way. Nodding his thanks, he settled into the seat carefully, gasping softly under his breath as he settled down. Crowley waited patiently, shifting the table back and sprawling into his side of the cubby with a graceless thump.

Aziraphale sipped his wine, the heady taste of plums and oak bursting onto his tongue. "Mmm..." He sighed happily, it'd been a while since he'd partaken of such a thing. How delightful. "Thank you for this, and for the other day. The garden looks lovelier every time I look out my window." 

Crowley nodded into his own glass, lips glistening red before his tongue peaked free to lick them clean. "So, did you want to talk about it? Or do you want to have a little bit of escapism?" He questioned, pulling his glasses up so they sat on the top of his head as he leaned forward. Looking like, either way, he'd be interested in hearing Aziraphale out.

Aziraphale sighed, turning to look back outside. He watched a cyclist peddle past, her legs working overtime to get up the hill. "A little of both, maybe," He admitted with a tired smile.

Crowley reached across the distance between them, taking hold of Aziraphale's fingers and giving them a squeeze. "I've been told I have really big ears. These satellite dishes were made for listening."

Eyeing his ears, Aziraphale thought they were perfectly proportioned. "Whoever told you that was an idiot." 

Crowley chuckled, ducking his head and shaking their clasped hands in reprimand. "Seriously, what happened?"

Aziraphale stared at their entwined fingers, wondering how he could make such a big gesture seem so simple. He let his fingers drift over calloused skin, relishing the feel of it on his own. He wondered what Crowley had determined was wrong with him, and how much the other man had just, intuitively, figured out. 

"I feel...trapped." He admitted, biting his lower lip and squeezing his eyes closed. "This isn't me or wasn't me. I used to be so much more." He waved a hand over his face, not daring to look up from his grip on Crowley's hands. "Sometimes I forget that, and other days, it just hits me. I have no control anymore, no purpose. Anathema is kind. She's my only friend and the closest thing to family I have, but she sometimes forgets nothing is easy for me. She forgets that when things go bad, I don't have anywhere to go."

Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath, laughing at how melodramatic he sounded. "It sounds so silly out loud." Picking up his glass, he took another sip.

"No, it doesn't. It sounds like your frustrated, and you're lonely. Two very human things to feel." Crowley leaned forward, his red nails drawing up Aziraphale's forearm and then to his shoulder, resting there with a comforting weight. Shifting, he settled himself closer until his thigh was a warm heat pressed up against Aziraphale's. Aziraphale leaned into that steady presence, craving touch. "Can't claim to understand what it's like to be in your situation. Tell me the rest?" 

"I supposed it all started with Shadwell..." Aziraphale started, describing his day, from the photographs Shadwell had taken to Anathema's popping the job interviews up without his permission. The alcohol helped, spurring him on and making the words easier to say. The more he talked, the more he realized that the lack of control was what was getting to him. Everything in his life was assisted by others. His groceries, his research, the bloody assistant he was hoping to hire. 

Crowley listened, his attention entirely focused on Aziraphale, making comments here and there. He offered the name of a physical therapist he knew, "He's worked with people who have all sorts of injuries. Also, I'm sure he wouldn't mind some extra cash for doing the extra stuff. He's out of work, so..." Aziraphale nodded his thanks. He wasn't prepared for talking to someone new, not after this afternoon, but he would keep it in mind. 

"I hate it. I hate relying on someone else, on being _that_ person. The one everybody has to take care of." He admitted. 

"Hogwash! Anyone should be thrilled to spend a day in your presence! An _hour_ in your presence! A _minute!_ Lucky bastards." he growled into Aziraphale's hair, snorting as he inhaled the curling strands.

"Oh, come on. Now, you're being dramatic." Aziraphale laughed, giving Crowley an incredulous stare. Somehow, his head had ended up cradled on Crowley's chest. His body twisted only slightly to make up for the uncomfortable position. They'd both startled when he'd settled himself there, neither one of them anticipating the touch. It was confounding, how familiar Crowley felt. How natural the beat of his heart against Aziraphale's ear was. Everything about the man just drew him in. 

"Is it odd to you? How comfortable we are with each other?" Aziraphale questioned, his head rising and lowering with the inhale and exhale of Crowley's lungs. The alcohol gave everything a warm glow, making even his usual worries feel fuzzy and meaningless, although that might be the medicine—possibly a combination of the two.

Crowley ran his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, a soft rumble of approval spilling from his lips. "You are a flame, and I'm the moth. What can I say?" He teased, giving Aziraphale a squeeze and urging him upright. That was a little difficult. Aziraphale felt weightless and slightly intoxicated.

"That's...a bit morbid." 

"Is it? Sounds romantic to me."

"If bursting into flames is romantic." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose at the visual, coming to the understanding that Crowley had a flare for the dramatic. Crowley laughed, draining the last of his glass and wiggling out the booth to go top himself off again. Aziraphale had long since finished his own, but given how he felt, it was best not to risk any further inebriation. He'd become a lightweight, how interesting.

"Well, Angel, forgive me if you're not looking for advice- I'm more than happy to be a set of ears to talk to- but it sounds to me like you did the right thing." Of course, Crowley would think that Aziraphale was beginning to realize the man was somewhat biased on that front. Never the less, his words were comforting. "That girl might have your interests at heart, but your home is your sanctuary. She should know not to disturb it without your permission. You're a fucking adult. You don't need to be coddled and babied. You have every right to decide who is allowed into your home, and when." He explained, gesturing with the bottle as he strolled back to the table. He didn't offer Aziraphale more, just placed it within reaching distance.

"I know you feel trapped, I don't have answers for that, but we can try to work on some of your fears. Maybe get you far enough outside to see that bird of yours?"

"'We?'" Aziraphale asked, blushing. He hadn't been aware they had evolved to 'we' yet. Even so, it was a good plan, a small plan that seemed doable, given the right situation. It was nice not to hear meaningless ideas and grandiose designs. Most people just thought they could shove him outdoors, that he'd get over it if he just stopped overreacting. Crowley somehow understood, somehow knew, that there wasn't some miracle for what ailed Aziraphale. 

"'Course, parsnip. A man deserves more than one friend, and that, I can be of service for. Great friend material right here."

"That...sounds good," Aziraphale said, a little disappointed at the term 'friend,' but understanding even so.

"Great more-than-friend material too!" he added with a saucy wink as he settled one hip on the table, leaning in, achingly close. 

"Oh my..." Close, so close. Crowley's breath, wine tinted and warm, dusted across Aziraphale's cheeks. Blue eyes met yellow, and Aziraphale swayed, starring into those warm depths. Crowley sighed, gaze flickering between Aziraphale's lips and his eyes as if he couldn't decide what needed more attention.

Slowly he leaned forward, and Aziraphale's breath hitched, his cheeks heating with anticipation, his heart jumping eagerly as his own eyes trained on Crowley's lips. He wasn't dim. He remembered this old song and dance. When fingers gently took hold of his chin and tugged, he couldn't help but close his eyes. Offering himself up for Crowley's inspection. A calloused thumb traces its way along Aziraphale's lower lips, rough and warm. 

"Aren't you beautiful..." 

Aziraphale thought his cheeks might take to flame and burn the whole flat down. He smiled, shy and uncertain, and when he opened his eyes, Crowley was grinning back, pulling away just enough to look Aziraphale over with further discerning eye.

"Are you tipsy, Angel?" He questioned, his voice going serious.

"Must be my medication. They mix a bit funny," Aziraphale admitted regretfully, sighing as the other man withdrew just out of reach.

"Mmm, is that so." Crowley didn't try to admonish him about drinking. He just reached out to muss his fingers through Aziraphale's hair. 

"Maybe we should save this for another time then?"

Chivalrous indeed. Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest.

The doorbell rang, pulling them from the moment with an abrupt and unexpected jolt. Aziraphale, always prone to startling, overreacted, as usual, jumping in his seat so that his head connected with Crowley's nose with a burst of pain.

"Oh!"

"Shite, fuckin' hell!" They both shouted, reaching to cover their respective injuries. Hand on his forehead Aziraphale winced, bending to peer underneath Crowley's hand to try and get a better look. 

"Jesus, Parsnip, is your head made of lead, or what?" He choked out, wiping at his tearing eyes with a wincing grin. Aziraphale didn't take it to heart, laughing abashedly under his breath and giving Crowley's knee a gentle squeeze.

"Awww, Anthony, I'm so sorry." He apologized, relieved when no blood spilled free from the injured appendage. His other hand flutter against Crowley's, uncertain of what to do. Crowley checked his hands for blood and shook his head as if to rid himself of the pain. 

The doorbell rang again, and they both turned to the offensive sound, Crowley, with a pursed glare that had Aziraphale giggling.

"COMING!" Crowley shouted, casting an apologetic look back at Aziraphale.

"I should go then, I think," Aziraphale said regretfully, with a poke to the other man's ribs. "Thank you, Crowley, for listening to a silly fool." 

"Silly yes, fool no. You feeling well enough to go up on your own?" 

"Of course, I'm not that intoxicated!" He snorted, waiting for Crowley to pull the table back so he could get up. His crutch had fallen over at some point, and Crowley bent, still holding his nose, to take it up and hand it over to Aziraphale. 

"Alright, can't blame a man for being chivalrous." Holding his free hand up in mock surrender, he backed away. "Let me get you my friend's card," He left Aziraphale to get up on his own. Which was how he preferred it, even when his head felt a bit fuzzy, and his heart wanted to float away like it was filled with helium.

Crowley had almost kissed him!

 _I almost kissed Crowley back!_ He felt giddy, his ankles wanted to skip from pure joy, but he resisted the urge, waiting until Crowley returned from digging a business card out of his wallet. 

"Right, here he is. Name's Newt Pulsifer, but don't hold that against him." Aziraphale took up the old, slightly faded bit of paper, looking it over before sliding it into his pocket.

"You know, I still have that jacket of yours," Aziraphale remembered, thinking of the leather jacket and it's current location on his chair. Crowley laughed, shaking his head. 

"Yeah, I know. You thief! Should I change your nickname to magpie?" Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest. He really hadn't intended to keep it, the first or the second time. Crowley stopped him with a finger to his lips. "Why don't you keep it until I visit your place, hmmm?" He questioned, moving to run his fingers along the edge of Aziraphale's jaw. Aziraphale leaned into the touch, never more aware of how touch-starved he was. 

"Alright." If that didn't sound like a promise...

"Let whoever is at the door in, if you don't mind? I need to get some ice for this nose of mine." Crowley admitted, returning his hand to his injured nose. The poor man that was sure to be quite a bruise in a few days. 

Aziraphale couldn't breathe through whatever feelings were trapped in his chest. Buoyant and light, he left Crowley to his ice and floated to the door. His steps a little less rocky, his spine a little more straight, his cheeks tight with an uncertain smile. 

It lasted until he opened the door. Aziraphale fumbled, deflating, his feet sticking to the wood floors as his eyes made contact with Crowley's guest. The same brown-haired man from the garden stood in the doorway, a takeout box hanging in a bag from his arm. He looked just as surprised to see Aziraphale, though he had a better reaction. Strong hands latched onto Aziraphale's shoulders, steadying him before he fell—the takeout box crunching between the two of them.

"Thank you." Aziraphale squeaked, pursing his lips and using the other man as leverage to right himself before letting go like he had touched a sharp knife. 

"Oh damn, did I knock in the wrong door again?" Blue eyes did a double-take, checking between Aziraphale and the room number, a confused laugh spilling from his lips. His math seemed to add up, so he let out a relieved sigh, "Oh good, is Crowley about?"Aziraphale glanced behind himself, to where Crowley was slumped, head first in the freezer.

Forcing himself to breathe, Aziraphale nodded, indicating the flat with a wave of his hand.

"Yes, yes, he's in the kitchen. Says to 'let yourself in.'" Aziraphale doggedly skirted around the stranger. He couldn't or maybe wouldn't introduce himself, too uncomfortable with whatever this new situation was. Hurrying away, his crutch clicked in time with his steps. 

"Right then, ta!" The brunet's confuddled expression followed him out the door. Aziraphale ignored it since it was a look he was far too used to receiving. 

He gave himself one last look over his shoulder and watched black slack covered legs disappear behind Crowley's door. The door closed behind him with a discomforting finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art, because this story just inspires me to paint! Crowley is working Aziraphale for all he's got. Also I like how he just, handles things. Sad Aziraphale - let me fix that. Lonely Aziraphale- Hold my drink, I got this. Want some flowers? I'll get you flowers!
> 
> Comment and kudos make my heart happy!


	4. He's Everywhere

Crowley was everywhere. The sneaky, devilish snake of a man always cropped up and appeared in the most ridiculous of locations. Aziraphale would be walking to toss the rubbish, and there the gardener was, also 'magically' tossing some tree clippings. He'd smile, wave, and shout a greeting, and they'd both linger, neither wanting to break whatever was growing in the space between them. 

These 'magical' occurrences happened more than the once. Wherever he went, there Crowley was. Another day and they ran into each other in the lift. Crowley going down, Aziraphale up, a bag of crisps in his hands that smelled of artificial cheese. He offered Aziraphale some, but Aziraphale declined, claiming lack of appetite. Crowley had made a mew of disappointment, but the rest of the bag was devoured by the time the lift doors closed behind his retreating back.

There'd been that moment at the entrance doors when Aziraphale had been struck by a panic attack at the sound of an engine revving, combined with the shout of a passerby. Not one of his finer moments. Crowley hadn't even seemed to care, just guiding him with gentle encouragement towards the lift and seeing him off to medicate the fear off.

On another location, they just happened to stroll by each other, and he casually offered sushi. "Mrs. Timpton gave it to me. I'm happy to share." Aziraphale had to decline that one outright. Not that he was inclined to eat it in the first place, but he'd had a meeting with the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. It was due to occur in ten minutes over video call, and his computer just would not charge. After ordering a new one cord in on a rush, he had only left his flat to hasten and get it from the delivery boy.

All of these were examples of how Crowley was everywhere. He had to have clones, little minions of himself sent out to tease and flirt and console with Aziraphale at any given moment.

Which was all well and good, except for the fact that Aziraphale was an overthinker. He found himself having difficulty leaving the flat lately, for fear he'd run into Crowley. Not because he was actually afraid of the man, more that he had no idea how to treat whatever the hell was going on between the two of them. He felt uncomfortable in his own shoes when he thought of the other man. Nervous, silly thing that he was, he couldn't think of how to handle this growing interest between them. 

What's more, his head was occupied with the man from the park, Todd. He'd taken to calling him Todd, if only because 'that man from the garden' was a mouthful to think. Either way, Todd was a conundrum that Aziraphale's mind picked at like a hangnail. Were they just friends? Were they lovers? Most of him was certain the Crowley would never be the type to lead on two different men. He also didn't seem to be worried or concerned with Aziraphale seeing Todd, so... did that put them in the 'Good Friends' end of things? Then again, Aziraphale reminded himself of the touchy caress he'd been witness to, Crowley's hand on the mystery man's chest. That seemed like more than friends. 

Awkward. That's what it was, unnervingly so. He didn't like it, not one bit. So Aziraphale did what he did best, hunker down and dwell. Hiding behind closed door and locked key. Until today that is. Clinging to his tea, he considered his options. He had not been to check the mail in four days. There would be bills and his monthly stipend, but he couldn't bring himself to go down to the lobby. He just knew Crowley would be there.

Thus, the dilemma, Aziraphale, had a feeling it would take just one to many fumbling attempts at flirtations on his part, and the other man would run. He did not want it to end because he was terrible at social interactions and had some dubious worries about a man who may, or may not, be named Todd. For once, Aziraphale was having fun! 

Well, there was nothing for it. He needed that check, and the bills must be paid. Groaning internally, he deposited his teacup on the countertop beside the door so as he could get his shoes on without falling over. Balancing precariously against the wall, he worked his toes into his leather loafers. He'd dressed in brown slacks and a light blue cable knit jumper that overlayed his usual dress shirt and bowtie. The blue looked nice on him, and he felt confident that, if he did run into Crowley, he at least looked presentable.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long. Swinging his door open, Aziraphale found his way blocked by a set of muscular shoulders. It was Crowley, turned away from him, and muttering under his breath as he looked down at something in his hands. At the sound of the door opening, he spun around, yellow eyes gobsmacked round, his fingers clutching the shape of a bakery box that he held. He did a double-take at the sight of Aziraphale and promptly blushed.

"Shite..." He groaned. "When'd you get here?"

And like that, all the nerves and distress that had been building up for the last bit dwindled. His chest swelled at the uncertain lopsided grin the other man gave him. He was wearing a wickedly tight top that showed off his bare shoulders and the most ridiculously pink set of shorts Aziraphale had ever seen. Perfect and unbearably sexy. His mouth felt suddenly dry, and Crowley's avid lips latched onto the peek of his tongue as it trailed over his upper lip.

"Hello, Crowley." 

Crowley leaned forward, eyes still clinging to Aziraphale's lips, a soft sound of interest rolling around in his throat. "Hello, Angel." He purred, settling into Aziraphale's space so that the bakery box was the only thing stopping them from looking too unseemly in front of the neighbors.

"Just perusing the third floor, then?" The intensity of his stare captured Aziraphale. He'd never seen someone look at him like he was edible before. Like they'd love to lay him out and lavish him with attention. His breath hitched and, marvel of marvels, he found himself leaning in just as close. Who cared what the neighbors thought?

"Ya, going on an afternoon walk. Checking the plants." Crowley groaned at the obvious falsity. He dragged his cheek against the door frame, stepping back out of Aziraphale's space, and reigning himself in with visible difficulty. 

The space he left behind felt empty and at least three degrees cooler. 

To distract himself from the loss, Aziraphale looked at the one plant on his floor, a potted monstrosity that sat just in front of the lift. It was as healthy and untamed as usual. In his five years at the flat, he'd never once seen it trimmed, and the only watering it received was by his own hand whenever he happened to think of it. "And how's Huebert fairing?"

"You've named the hallway plant, Huebert?" Crowley looked between the two of them, tilting his head and squinting. "Eh...guess he does look like a Huebert. Though it's female, you can tell by the leaf nodes." He said the last with pursed lips, the word 'nodes' playing on his tongue for a moment longer than necessary.

"Is that direct from the gardener's handbook?" Aziraphale snickered, leaning on his crutch for support.

"Yup, wrote it meself. It's a dull read, though. Nobody appreciates the mating principles of plants. Have another meeting today?"

"Oh...no, not today. The committee only meets occasionally." All this standing was getting strenuous, but he wasn't looking forward to ending their little chat. Crowley seemed to notice, eyeing his grip on his arm crutch, and he looked as if he were ready to leave if only so Aziraphale could sit down. Such a gentleman. 

Aziraphale dwaddled because what he really wanted was to invite Crowley inside, yet he'd never had guests before. His fingers twisted in the hem of his pullover as he fought down the natural rise in worry that came with that idea. 

_Oh, to heck with it all._

"Did you want to come in?" He asked, his tongue fumbling over itself in his hast to get the words out before he lost his courage. Once they were free, though, he didn't dwell on it and, surprisingly, didn't feel a pickles worth of worry for the offer. It felt natural to ask, just the next step in the process. This was Crowley, who'd seen him at his worst thus far and hadn't made a habit of judging. He surely wouldn't mind a smudge of dust on the bookshelves.

Crowley's smile turned into a grin, his eyes into warm orbs of pleasure. "You sure?" He asked, probably remembering their last real conversation, where strangers coming into his apartment had been an issue. "I've got croissants? And sandwiches. I didn't know what you'd like." He offered as if to smooth the transition, waving his box about.

Aziraphale smiled at the offer, "Of course, wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it. We'll have a bit of a tit for tat." Aziraphale declared, pushing the door open the rest of the way and waving Crowley inside. "You show me yours. I show you mine." 

That elicited a choked moan of something close to approval from Crowley. Aziraphale looked back at him only to see the other man blushing furiously, head dropped back on his neck as if praying for something. 

"What? Oh! Not like that!" It was his turn to blush as he gave Crowley a look, pushing the door closed and throwing the lock. Sexual innuendo, tricky words.

"Ngk-of course not. Can't help the visual, though." Crowley laughed, shaking his head and strolling onward, head-turning about to examine the new space. Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that. Instead, he held his breath, not sure why Crowley's opinion would matter. It was his home. He could decorate and make it look any way he wanted.

Yet, Crowley's flat was so light and airy, and Aziraphale's was ceiling to floorboard packed. Books and knickknacks lined the shelves he'd had placed along the left sidewall. His research blockaded where the books were not, taking up reams of paper and spouted off in binders and various containments that did not do a thing actually to contain them. The walls were red, he'd thought about painting them, but then he'd have to move the shelves and hire a crew. So no, they'd stay red for now. The dark green carpet had been his one dalliance, sure it helped to stop himself from slipping, but it brought a little bit of color to the place. All his furniture was antique at best and hadn't been considered new in decades. So yes, the two of them were different. Very much so, actually.

Crowley took it in, whistling low under his breath. "Ha! This is exactly how I thought it would look and yet one-hundred percent different. Same, look, different color pallet." He explained, walking over to a shelf and reading one of the book titles. 

Aziraphale laughed, tension easing from his gut, "And what color pallet were you expecting?" He questioned, busying himself by turning to put the kettle back on. He supposed he'd be needing more tea. 

"Oh, you know, sorta had you out as an Angel through and through. Baby blues and peach tones maybe, some clouds here and there to accent the room. Cherub's singing in the corners and raining glitter down on unsuspecting passersby." Interrupting himself, Crowley made an 'ah-ha' sound, stepping over to the chair where his jacket had taken up residence and running a finger along the seaming. 

"Oh well, that's how it used to be, but do you have any idea how expensive it is to staff cherubs for twenty-four hours a day?" Aziraphale couldn't believe the nonsense leaving his mouth. Crowley brought out the playful side of him. It was hard not to join in when the other man said such ludicrous things.

"Now that you mention it, the worker's unions would have had something to gripe about. Sounds like all sorts of laws being broke there." 

Ludicrous things just like that, Crowley played along wonderfully.

Hiding his giddy, overly enthusiastic self behind the cabinet door, he dug about for some plates to use for their impromptu get together. Snatching up a couple of dishes from a cupboard, he piled all the necessary eating instruments on top. He didn't have a lot of dinnerware per se, only a bit of this, a tad of that, but he could make a decent table setting for two, as long as one wasn't fussy about the matching aspect of things. Balancing the pile precariously, he managed to get it halfway across the room before Crowley noticed and snatched it up out of his hands, cursing under his breath. 

"Shite, you're fast. Lemme get the rest?" He offered, setting them on the table and spinning about to see if there was anything else. 

"There's just the kettle." Aziraphale pointed towards the electric kettle, turning and fussing with his papers to make room at the table for two. Crowley was only gone for a moment, long stride carrying him to the kitchen and back before he shimmied around Aziraphale, settling the kettle down on the back end of the table. "Am I missing anything?"

"Just your lovely self." Crowley teased as he folded into the chair like he was made up of nothing but joints. He was barely seated a moment before he reached for the bakery box with greedy hands. His eyes, when he opened the lid, were something to behold. Aziraphale had seen men show lesser interest in sex than Crowley offered that box. Aziraphale smothered a laugh behind his palm, shaking his head.

"Wah?" Crowley faux pouted at him, dragging a sandwich free and placing it on his plate. "Damned hungry is what I am. Haven't eaten for hours! And then I was fussing about in front of your door. Built me up an appetite," He explained, voice high and only a little bit whinging. "Want half?"

Settling down into his usual spot, Aziraphale's breath hitched as his back spasmed. Closing his eyes, he leaned heavily on the table, urging that familiar pain down. "No, no, I'll have one of the croissants instead." He muttered under his breath. He ached today, no doubt about that. When he opened his eyes, Crowley was giving him an open look of concern. He was far too observant, of course, he would see Aziraphale's wince of pain. Leaning across the table, Crowley moved to get a good look at Aziraphale's pained lower half.

"Being a bother today, then?" He growled down at the offending extremities, leaving Aziraphale sputtering and shoving him back towards his side of the table.

"Don't talk to my pelvis Crowley, you silly duck."

"Tell it to not look so sexy in those trousers, and maybe we'll have a deal." Crowley crooned, his voice muffling as he bit into his sandwich. Aziraphale snorted. 

"You're in unrepentant flirt. Has anyone told you that?" He questioned, leaning his chin on his elbow and watching Crowley delve into his meal. It looked like turkey, or possibly chicken, and smelled heavenly. He didn't have much of an appetite, though, still riding the edges of pain that had his brow furrowing and leg trembling with spasms of damaged nerves. 

"Oh, undoubtedly. Though you react so well, I can't help it." Crowley winked and pushed the box towards Aziraphale, urging him to eat with a pouty look. "Try em, best in the city. Promise you'll love it." 

Aziraphale couldn't say no to that, appetite or no appetite. Peering inside, he took up the smallest croissant out of the two and set it on his plate. "I'm not very hungry."

"Mmm, I'm hungry enough for both of us." Crowley groused, biting into his sandwich with a wuffle of happy contentment. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Aziraphale followed his example, peeling off an end to his croissant and popping it into his mouth.

It melted on his mouth like buttery heaven. 

"Oh, that's lovely." Aziraphale moaned, scootching his seat closer to the table and unconsciously wiggling in his chair, not even the twinges and pains able to stop the happy feeling of good food on his tongue. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd had fresh bread.

"Fucking sinful, that what that is." Crowley sighed, that sensual purr rolling off his lips. Aziraphale looked up, anticipating he'd be speaking to his sandwich, only to see those golden eyes trained on him, watching him eat with avid interest. He was most certainly not talking about the food.

Aziraphale wondered if it was possible to faint from giddiness. His head was fuzzy with the heady rush from Crowley's gaze. The way Crowley looked at him had him feeling like something exotic, something rare. It'd been a long time since anyone had looked at him like that. He supposed some might find it discomforting, but he liked it. Feeling daring, Aziraphale took another piece and deposited it ever so slowly into his mouth. The look on Crowley's face as he placed it on his tongue tasted better than any sustenance.

"I see what you're doing, Parsnip." Crowley didn't seem to mind at all, sandwich seemingly forgotten as he leaned back into his chair to watch Aziraphale. His long fingers rubbed over his lower lip. His kind eyes are dark with interest. Aziraphale couldn't resist. He took another bite, smiling around his fingers when Crowley rumbled with approval. Chew, swallow, watch those eyes linger on the bob of his Adam's Apple. 

He grew thirsty, so he poured them both a cup. Crowley accepted his tea willingly enough, mostly just holding it, slinging one arm over his chair back and a leg over the chair arm. It'd grow bitter if he didn't take the bag out soon. Aziraphale didn't mention it, instead taking another bite under Crowley's eager gaze. And another. Until the croissant was nothing but crumbs on the plate, and his belly felt full.

He wasn't sure when the last time was that he actually felt full. He leaned back in his chair, considering the tidbits left on the plate. The satisfied look on Crowley's face had him wondering if the man had done that intentionally.

"Did you do that on purpose?" Aziraphale questioned aloud. Was he really so thin now that it looked concerning? Was Crowley astute enough to notice whatever his condition was? He didn't know what to call it, some sort of eating disorder, but he wasn't eager to put a name to it. If he did, then it'd just be another box to add to the checklist of things that were wrong with him. 

"No, but it looks like you did!" Crowley cheerily teased, as if he had no idea what Aziraphale was getting at. That glimmer of contentment in his eyes said otherwise, though. Placing his cup on the table, Crowley oozed out of his chair. Aziraphale settled back in his, no point in chasing the bird and ruining whatever this was. Besides, he wasn't sure he actually felt upset at it. Crowley cared. That was a lovely thing, not something to be given a slap of the wrist over.

"You really do like birds, huh? Did you take these?" Aziraphale looked up in time to see Crowley gesture at the photographs placed on the walls.

"Hmmm, yes. Years ago."

"Oh ho ho, National Geographic? Look at that, your name on the front cover. Aziraphale Device. Good last name."

Aziraphale flinched, turning his head up to look at the offending article. He'd forgotten about that, hadn't read the headline in years. "The one's on that wall were contributed by Shadwell." Waving his hand towards the other side of the wall, indicating them with a twiddle of his fingers, he hoped to distract Crowley. Crowley paused to look at them, eyes skimming before turning back to Aziraphale's work.

"Oh, yeah, I see what you are saying. There's a big difference between the two. Shadwell's looks great. But yours look like you plucked the sun from the sky and shifted it about just right." Aziraphale watched, dazed as Crowley moved closer examine his photograph of a Capercaillie grouse. Leaning slouched shoulder in to look it over with intrigued eyes. "As if everything came together just right and then time stopped so you could take the photo," Crowley explained, turning to look at Aziraphale with a warm curl lingering at the corner of his lips. Mouth dry, Aziraphale ducked his head, flustered. The bread burbled in his belly, or maybe it was because Crowley kept looking at him like _that_. Like what he did was something amazing. It made him feel proud, or some variation of.

"They're just old photographs, gathering dust." He hurriedly explained, awkward from the praise, his cheeks hurt from reigning in the smile on them. Crowley just chuckled, breaking away from the photo and strolling around the side of the table until he was only feet from Aziraphale.

"Are you being modest, Angel?" He leaned in the rest of the way. So, Aziraphale's line of sight was taken up by tan, scantly clad shoulders and long red curls. If he looked down just a bit further, he'd catch sight of jutting hipbones and thongs that showed of his red painted toes. The scent of his cologne invading Aziraphale's sinuses, encasing him in a cloud of pure Crowley. Heady and warm like the sun. Crowley was...everything. There was no room, no flat or building with him standing there, narrowing down Aziraphale's world.

"Nnn?" What were they talking about? His brain shut down to base instincts, his head turning up to look Crowley in the eyes and just...breath. Crowley had that look again, that look that said all he wanted to do was kiss Aziraphale until neither of them could tell one from the other. His eyes were everywhere from Aziraphale's blue ones to the column of his throat, to his lips, to his ears and nose and cheeks. He ate up the sight of Aziraphale, drank him in like a starved man, moving in closer and closer.

When their lips finally connected, it was like lightning, like magnets drawn forward of their own accord, with no real understanding of what was happening. Aziraphale gasped against warm, pursed lips, reaching out to clutch the folds of Crowley's top and drag him in close. Crowley chuckled and did as he was urged, bowing his long frame down to lean one hand on the chair arm, the other going for the back of Aziraphale's head. 

The sweet draw of skin on skin was heady and overwhelming, making Aziraphale's heart spike and his head ring with desire he hadn't felt in years. For a moment, he lost time, drawn into the slow play of lips on lips, heat on heat, skin to skin. Someone was making soft sounds of appreciation, whimpered gasps for more. 

"The sound you make..." Crowley moaned against his lips, voice choked and throaty with desire. There was the creak of wood, and suddenly his lap was full of Crowley, the other man gingerly straddling Aziraphale, one leg to either side of his skinny thighs, both large hands cradling Aziraphale's face to keep him close. Aziraphale hissed at the sudden, wonderful, exciting pressure of another being settling into his space, wrapping his arms around Crowley's waist to encourage further such endeavors. He could feel sharp kneed bones digging into his thigh, the restrained weight of him settling into place above Aziraphale and taking over. Careful, so careful, not a twinge of discomfort ruined the moment.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale gasped against sweet, lipgloss stained lips, unsure what he was asking, just _needing_ more. Crowley provided, diving in to take advantage of Aziraphale's open mouth. The slick wiggle of his tongue on Aziraphale's had them both jolting and moaning. Aziraphale's fingers spasmed against Crowley's backside, squeezing and drawing him in through the fabric of his pink shorts. Slippery and wet, they tangled together, dancing with eager flicks of their tongues. Crowley tasted of buttery bread and salty things, his lips of fake strawberries. Utterly delightful.

They broke apart with gasping breaths, neither one eager to leave the other, but air was a must. Crowley's forehead pressed to Aziraphale's for a moment before he gave himself free rein to explore other avenues, his lips sinking into the hollow behind Aziraphale's ear. Aziraphale turned his head, sighing softly at the scrape of stubble along the tender flesh. 

"You are so lovely..." Aziraphale whispered against red curls, turn his own attention to the hard line of Crowley's collarbone, tonguing along the captivating surface of it, salty and warm from sweat. Crowley chuckled, nibbling down the tendon of Aziraphale neck. His daft fingers worked into the tight constriction Aziraphale's bowtie, urging it to part so that he could suck lightly at a spot he found suitable.

The tense pull of tongue and lips had Aziraphale's head falling back against the chair back and sent his hips twitching. The sensation going right to his groin. "God, Crowley..." He wasn't above a bit of whining. Crowley didn't seem to mind, judging by the way he rolled his own hips to greet Aziraphale's. A dirty, barely-there caress of netherregions that was delightful for its almost nonexistence. Nothing too untoward, just a bit of exploration.

"You think I'm lovely?" Crowley moaned, dropping Aziraphale's neck to reconnect them at the mouth with a slow, eager suck of Aziraphale's lower lip. Releasing it with a pop, he leaned back and took Aziraphale in. "Look at you-fucking gorgeous. I've wanted to kiss you for weeks. You sneaky thing, always running away." Aziraphale laughed, pulling him back down with a gentle tug of red curls. 

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm gonna assume that means 'extremely kissable.'" Crowley smirked, tangling them together again until their lips connected, warm and eager. They kissed like a couple of teenagers, neither keen to break the moment, both hungry for more but uninterested in actually taking it further.

It was Crowley's alarm that stopped them. A soft chiming beep that emanated from his wristwatch, and which neither of them heard at first. Then the tinging finally wormed its way through the sound of lips on lips and the heady gasps of pleasure. Crowley tensed, groaning and smacking a quick peck to Aziraphale's lips before finally breaking away.

"Have to go...thing." He showed off his smartwatch, and Aziraphale caught sight of the words _''Take your'_ scrolling across the front before the other man dismissed the notification. "Hate to kiss and run-"

"Don't be, that was- delightful." Aziraphale licked his lower lip. It felt raw and plump from being given so much attention. Crowley groaned, seemingly drawn just by the gesture, 

"You need to stop looking so damned edible." He hissed, dropping his head to lean it against Aziraphale's shoulder.

Aziraphale dragged his fingers through the other man's hair. The soft, silky locks were a treat to touch. He thought he'd love to braid Crowley's hair, to draw his fingers in each strand, and wrangle it into something lovely. He earned a sound of pleasure as he scrapped stubby fingers against Crowley's skull, giving him a moment to come down off of whatever ride they had just taken together. 

"Come on, then, off with you." Aziraphale urged Crowley from his lap, watching the other man unwind from around him, graceful despite his gangly limbs. Crowley paused, running fingers through his hair to try and look presentable. It didn't help. He looked positively debouched, his lipgloss smudge and his pupils blown so that his eyes were nothing but dark pools.

Aziraphale didn't say anything, somehow pleased that maybe a neighbor or two might see him that way and realize Aziraphale was the one to do it.

Biding his farewell, the door shut behind Crowley, and Aziraphale moaned, dropping his head back against the chair back and staring up at the ceiling.

He was going to faint. He was going to float. He was so damned giddy that he thought he might burst from it. He had to tell someone, anyone really, but the first person that popped into his head had him reaching for his phone. Tittering under his breath, he pressed the call button and waited for the call to pick up.

"Anathema, something amazing just happened!" He gasped out, breathlessly into the speakers as soon as it picked up.

It took all of a moment for her to catch on. She was silent for a moment and then shouted in his ear. "Oh my god, you filthy man, tell me it was the redhead!?" She squealed, and it was precisely what Aziraphale wanted to hear. 

"Crowley, his name is Crowley." He admitted shyly, the grin on his face splitting it near in half.

"Oh, this is too good to listen to over the phone. I'll be there in ten."

Aziraphale stared at his phone as the line went dead. The blush on his cheeks is apparently unending today. Looking up, he caught sight of Crowley's jacket, still taking pride of place on the back of the chair. Shaking his head, he touched a hand to his neck and the still glowing warm mark that Crowley had placed on his skin. Anathema would have a field day with that. 

_What just happened?_ He was at a loss. If he didn't have the stubble burn on his lips to prove it, he would say he'd imagined the whole thing. **** When had his life become so intriguing that he could brag about a mid-afternoon snog?

Tugging his bowtie free, he set to put it to rights once more. Best not to look to love handled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They've kissed! I don't know why I'm so excited about this, it's only been 3 chapters, but dang it if it doesn't feel like it's been forever! Painted another thing, it just feels wrong not to at this point, I guess someday I'll have to back up and draw something for Chapter 1. Look at Crowley's toes!
> 
> As usual, I would love to hear from you. You're comments and kudos from the last chapter were much appreciated.
> 
> Take care fair readers!


	5. Bittersweet Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags added

"You'd like him, I think. He's nothing like you. Bit crass, a little silly, but he's kind to me. Not to say that anything will come of it, but it's all rather exhilarating. Don't you think Raphael?" There was no answer. Aziraphale sighed, looking up from the photograph in his hand and around his empty bedroom. He hadn't expected one.

It'd been harder when Raphael had first passed. It was like someone took a piece of him, a lovely, wonderful piece. The best piece. Just ripped it away and left the wound seeping. Raw and open.

He had tried to cope at first. To go on like everything was normal, but then he would catch something funny, or see something beautiful, and turn to share it, only to have no one to share it with. That wound where Raph had been would twist, aching and hot. Reminding him of what he was missing. Worse yet had been the pain after, the pain of hurting so much, but having no one to comfort him or help shoulder the burden.

The first places he had difficulty visiting were the museums. Raph had been an avid artist. His friends and life had revolved around art, and shows, and all the silly floof that went along with it. Inordinate amounts of champagne and humming over color palettes and composition. The first reception he'd been invited too, after Raphael was gone, had been god awful. A mixed bag of pitying looks and whispered condolences as people looked from his wheelchair to his side and noticed that missing piece. He was out of place now, a puzzle piece that could not fit into the spot it used to belong to.

At first, he hadn't been able to do much, thanks to the pain. The effort for recovery taking up most of his time. Time passed, and with it, he'd ventured outward less and less for other reasons. Restaurants and places he'd loved had been too painful to grating on that internal ache. He'd step inside and see only twisted glimpses of what he and his husband had once shared. The noise of traffic set his heart to crashing in a distressed staccato. The vroom of a passing engine began to represent those desperate, horrible moments. Death and pain waited in the outside world.

He had moved. To get away from the friends, the familiar places. New location, new memories to make, that had been the goal. Cutting ties had been as simple a having the will to never look back. He'd found a lovely flat in the north of London, and bought it from the money left to him from the accident and selling off their old house.

He'd moved with the hopes of renewing himself.

It was unfortunate it hadn't quite worked out that way. Considering his cozy, little room, Aziraphale wondered if he would have moved here, had he known it would become his self-made prison.

"Well, didn't that get depressing?" Aziraphale glared down at his lap and marveled at the way his brain worked. What drivel it created sometimes. "Come on, then, best not to mope around." He returned his picture to the top of his wardrobe, letting his fingers lingered over the beloved ghost of the man in the photo. Young rich brown eyes stared back at him— mid-length, curly brown hair, and olive-toned skin that had no right to exist in dreary English weather. 

In the snapshot Aziraphale leaned on Raphael, happy and cheerful. They were at an art exhibition. Raphael had been so pleased to get his work in the show. The piece that hung behind them in the picture had sold that night. His husband glowed with pride at the SOLD plaque that hung beside the painting. Aziraphale had glowed with him. They made a charming couple. They'd been in love. Happy, so happy.

It had taken him months to locate the buyer and convince them to part with Raph's work. The oil painting now hung above his fireplace, purchased for twice what it had sold for that night, and taking up pride of place in the well-loved flat.

"Alright, handsome. I'm off." He tapped the top of his wardrobe, the wood echoing deep and hollow. "Ta." Raphael looked back at him enigmatically, his wry grin speaking of mischief. He'd probably find all these new occurrence grand fun. _'Mix it up, you old ninny._ ' He'd say. Aziraphale snorted. He was thinking too hard. Digging the tip of his crutch into the carpet, he made his way out the door. 

There was supposed to be a lovely nature program on BBC1 he had been looking forward to watching and a video call with Shadwell later in the day where they planned on discussing applying for their latest grant. If they could get it, their research would be funded for the next two years.

At first, it was enough just to walk, to pace the squared confines of his flat, and let his restless legs take him from one end to the other. Each step ached, each rolling hip sent jolts up his spine and down his legs.

Pain. Pain that had him switching between clinging to his countertops and rocking in place. His various medications weren't making a dent in it, and past experience told him it was just the start of a horrible day, if not a horrendous week.

Desperate for some form of relief, he retreated to his bathroom for a shower. Maybe a soak in the humid heat would help. The bathing room was his second favorite room in the flat. It had dimmable overhead lights and a large shower-head that managed to reach all angles of his usually achy body. He was not ashamed to say that he lingered most mornings away within its comforting embrace. 

Rucking his trousers off, his hands lingered over the aching swell of his mid-back, dipping into the pale skin in an attempt to ease the wayward throbbing that was building up there. Hard ridges of scar tissue bowed under his fingertips. Tracing their shape, he worked his fingers up along the seam of it. They were surgical in nature, and therefore neat and precise. It hardly mattered when the actual damage was hidden underneath. 

Crushed and broken. 

"Oh, crunchy spine, don't be so hard on me." He groaned, toeing aside his underthings so they wouldn't get too wet. 

The tile was icy beneath his toes as they touched down inside the shower. He longed for a bath, but the idea of getting out of the tub afterward was far too daunting. This would do well enough. It would have to. Starting the water up, he stepped in only when it was warm. He drifted in the quiet stillness of the room, the sound of streaming water broken only by his soft inhales of pain. A soothing sound, calming as he stepped into the heated spray, like the tinging of crystal, or perhaps the rush of a river. 

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself somewhere else. Somewhere warm. A tropical forest, maybe. Surrounded by exotic birds. His gasps wouldn't be from pain, but instead from a hard trek through the dense terrain. The ache in his legs from exertion. His shirt would stick with sweat, and the insects would sing along to the sound of the rushing river. Since he was imagining things, he thought it would be nice to have Crowley by his side. All the flora would no doubt enchant the other man. 

Wouldn't that be lovely? Huffing softly, he dropped his head to the shower wall, forehead squeaking against the icy wall tiles. "Ninny." He whispered. He didn't know why his imagination liked to play such tricks on him. It was a mean thing, teasing him of days past that could never be again. 

He soaked until his fingers were pruned, and his pulse was beating an aggressive staccato in his chest. Too hot, but it helped, soothing tense muscles until the only pain left was the internal stuff. Enough that he could focus for a little bit, gather himself into blue pajamas, and take his tablets. 

There was no saving the day. Not with the way he ached, so he drew himself a glass of water, dragged his tray of tablets off the counter, and thrust himself into bed. Or maybe rolled? Desperately sprawled? Whatever the term, he managed to swaddle himself in the blankets, shoving a pillow here and a cushion there, until he was braced in every way and maybe would be able to crawl his way out of this flareup with his dignity intact.

It turns out dignity doesn't matter much in these sorts of situations. Aziraphale dry heaved into the basin at his bedside, groaning through the agony that moving caused. It was a stupid reaction to pain, the desire to sick. He hadn't eaten anything in days, three days to be exact, there was nothing _too_ sick up! His stomach was a hallow gourd of medication and bile. Which was all well and good, considering how much it was rolling and twisting. He much preferred it empty if he was going to be spewing his guts up.

What had been a slow build-up of pain was now an overwhelming landslide of agony, combined with dehydration, nausea, and undernourishment. 

From his position on his back, he could just see out of his room window, and the weather matched his mood. It was raining and dreary with garish clouds that bruised the sky purple. There was no green in sight, his vantage point to low to allow him a view of the garden below. Instead, in his moments of clarity, he gazed up at rolling clouds, watching the wind chase them across the sky. His carefully laid pillows had been tossed to the floor in his desperate moments, and he'd long since given up on retrieving them. 

Considering his options, Aziraphale just knew he was maxed out on pain meds, and his liver was probably feeling it, considering he hadn't been able to keep down any water. Sleep meds would have to do then. Liver be damned. Fumbling at the bedside table, he managed to wrangle in a tablet and swallow it dry, coughing around the rough texture as the tablet caught in his throat. It was all he could do to then drag his one remaining pillow over his head and wait out the medicine. The clash of thunder echoing the ringing in his head until it pulled him under into a restless sleep.

He wasn't aware of time passing, but a gentle touch to his arm had him struggling out from throws of pain induced slumber and feverish fog. Groggily Aziraphale drew the pillow from his head, peering up blurrily at a familiar face. "Raphael?" He croaked, catching glimpses of warm brown eyes and long brown curls. For all of a second, he was confident that it was him, Raphael, raised from the dead. It lasts only as long as it takes him to blink the sleep from his eyes and focus. There was a hitching intake of breath, and then that blurry shape coalesced into familiar angles. 

Anathema. 

"Oh, sweetheart, it's just me." She took up his hand, pressing it to her heart and squeezing gently. Her face was sad, her eyes glistening wetly and moist with old grief. For a moment, his heart aches, for a face so like hers but loved for so many different reasons. For a moment, his heart aches for that memory of a face similar to hers but loved for so many different reasons. 

It made him feel like an arse.

"Annie...I'm sorry, love, you two always looked so alike." He mumbled, his tongue drug slurred and sticky in his mouth from dehydration. "What are you doin' here?" He asked, forcing the topic away from the shared pain they never talked about. 

"I haven't heard you call me that in ages." Anathema sniffled, laughing under her breath, "You didn't answer the phone, so I decided to come by." She brushed a hand gently through his hair, openly concerned. Aziraphale sighed, leaning into the touch, if only because he _hurt_ , and it felt so lovely. 

"Don't worry....not dead, just hurting," Aziraphale explained, scrubbing his face against the covers in an attempt to get his head working. 

"That's what you said the first time I came through. Do you remember?" Aziraphale blinked, taking his hand with him as he sagged back against his pillows. He couldn't remember her coming in. Frankly, he couldn't remember much through the pain and the drugs. 

"Honestly, I don't remember much of the last few days." His back hurt, and his voice showed it, broken and strained, face twisted as he attempted to rock into a more comfortable position. The damaged nerves in his spine sang, sending spasms of agony down his legs and across his hips. "Ahh...." He moaned, squeezing his eyes closed to try to close out the sight of a concerned Anathema. 

"Oh Ezra, I think we might have to take you to a medic," Anathema admitted, taking a corner of the sheet to lightly pat at his sweat-dampened forehead. Once the agony had dwindled, Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off with a touch of her fingers to his chapped lips. "You're kinda past the point of protest, sweetheart. If I don't take you in, I could lose my license, family or not. You're dehydrated and delirious, and I'm pretty sure you haven't eaten recently."

Aziraphale groaned, glaring at her, but even that took far too much effort. "Ugh...you're probably right." He mumbled the fact that he didn't panic right away, worrying in itself. Hospitals were terrifying, but he was just so damn tired. 

Anathema sighed in relief. "Okay, let me just figure out how to do this." She's probably anticipated he would put up a fight, but he didn't have it in him. 

"No, ambulance!" He ordered, pointing an accusing finger at her. They both could recall what happened last time. Neither one had enjoyed that experience.

"I know." She sighed, and her weight shifted the bed as she stood up. He could hear her shuffling about in his wardrobe, the soft clatter of her heels accenting her every move. It was a comforting sound, mixed with the sound of the rain. He might have drifted after that, too worn to fight the pull of sleep. 

He woke up to the sound of voices, whispering to each other from his bedside. 

"We've never properly been introduced to each other." Came a familiar drawl from the area next to his closet, followed by a grunt of effort and the sound of rubber hitting wood flooring.

"I supposed you're right. Anathema Device."

A low whistle. "You know, you're the third Device I've met in my life."

"Mmm, we're not as rare as I thought." 

"Yeah, helps that two of them are in this room. Please tell me you two aren't married or something."

Anathema snorted, mock gagging. 

Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale coughed, opening one eye to glare at the two of them. Crowley jerked around from his position beside Aziraphale's wheelchair. Which he somehow had managed to pull down from the top shelf of the closet. Aziraphale glared at it hazily. He really wasn't happy to see the thing again. Two long strides and Crowley was at his bedside, crouching over him mustard-seed eyes and red brows furrowed in concern. 

"There you are," Crowley purred, and he sounded so please it made Aziraphale feel like he'd done something special, just by waking up. "Hey, Angel, feeling a bit roughed up?" Came the soft question. 

"Just a little." Aziraphale croaked, smacking his lips and looking between Crowley and a very discomfited Anathema, who hovered over his shoulder, mouth mewed into a twist of distress. 

"Remind me to take away your key," Aziraphale commanded, unable to find the energy to throw an actual fit about his space being invaded, even if it was by a charming garden nymph with a leaf sticking from his hair. 

"I'm sorry, Ezra, I just couldn't reach the chair. Did Beezlebub put it up there?" Anathema explained, looking repentant. It was all he could do to nod, his eyes going back to a worried Crowley. 

The other man was busy fussing, brushing aside Aziraphale's sweat-stained hair and running calloused fingers over his face. Aziraphale closed his eyes as they brushed across his dry, cracked lips, "Thirsty?"

God, was he, but he hated the idea of it just coming back up again. The last thing he wanted to do was sick up in front of the lovely, perfect Crowley. "Nah...tired."

"Mmm, methinks that's the medicine talking. Here," The bed squeaked as he leaned towards the nightstand. "If it comes up again, I'll leave you to spewing your guts. Pride intact." Aziraphale chuckled weakly but attempted to sip at the glass, the water heaven on his dry tongue. He managed a couple of gulps but choked midway through, as pain spasmed up his muscles, spilling water down his chin and across his neck in chilled rivulets. 

"Ohh..." Dropping back to the bed, he managed to wriggle a hand beneath himself to try and ease the discomfort of locked muscles.

"Ah, poor dear. Here, let Crowley help." Leaning forward, Crowley settled into his space, long, dexterous fingers taking the place of his own hand. Crowley's hands were large, and Aziraphale's hips near none existent. It was an easy feat for him to take to kneading aching muscles, hands all but enveloping Aziraphale's waist.

Aziraphale whimpered in relief, slumping into a hideous lump on the bed, just happy for some form of comfort, even if the nerve pain itself was unaffected. 

"God, aren't you a bitty thing?" Crowley observed, humming under his breath, his fingers chasing the clenched muscles. Aziraphale winced, covering his eyes with his forearm, so he didn't have to see _that_ look on Crowley's face. 

"Is fine." He slurred.

He felt fingers squeeze his toes and peaked from beneath his arm long enough to see Anathema, hovering at the foot of the bed, features sad and protective. "It's not fine, Aziraphale. We need to get you to a doctor." She urged.

"Shh...we'll get him there, just, give him a moment." Crowley urged.

Retreating back to hide under his arm Aziraphale whined softly, tears unwillingly tracking down his cheeks and staining his pillowcase as he breathed through the pain. He felt horrible and vulnerable, and he hated it. He preferred hiding his pain. Letting the rest of the world assume he was just a little rocky on his feet. This was so far outside the norm. Being comforted, being soothed. He hardly noticed himself drifting off, fading away with the muscle spasms, back into one of those restless sleeps.

"There you go, love, just sleep it off for a bit." He heard distantly.

This was getting ridiculous. Upon drudging himself out of the depths of sleep again, he found himself surrounded not by two, but rather three people. He resolved never to fall asleep in crisis ever again. His house would be invaded if he wasn't careful. They gathered the space above his bed, standing over him and giving him triplicate looks of open concern. 

"Todd?" Aziraphale stared at the brown-haired, bespectacled fellow, then back towards Anathema and Crowley, "Whasss Todd doing here?"

"Angel?" Crowley's ludicrous eyebrows beetled down over his nose. "This is my physical therapist friend, Newt, do you remember?" Crowley was giving him a concerned look. So was Todd-Newt. He bent down, looking Aziraphale over with a discerning eye.

Aziraphale snorted, feelings unreasonably confused Todd was Newt? That made things...less complicated. Though for the life of him, he couldn't recall why. He was far too hopped up on meds to get that sorted out in his head.

"Newt this Aziraphale, my...friend."

Anathema cleared her throat. "Ezra, he prefers Ezra."

"No, he-"

"Except with you." Anathema waved him down, and Crowley cast a confused look between them.

Aziraphale moaned. He had no will to explain names or lack thereof. "Why's Todd here?"

"Not Todd, Newt," Anathema raised an eyebrow. "We talked about it, and unless it was necessary, we don't want to stress you by forcing you out of the flat," Anathema explained. Her eyebrows were also doing the caterpillar thingy, furrowed in a cute little pout. A pout that Newt-Todd seemed intrigued by if the way his eyes lingered on it was anything to go by. "Crowley mentioned Newt, and I thought it would be nice to get a second opinion, even if he's only a physical therapist."

Crowley and Newt-Todd hissed in unison at that, Todd flushing brilliantly under his wire-frame glasses. "That burns." He muttered, giving his head a scratch.

"Wait, Newt is Todd?" Why was his brain so damn foggy? There were way too many people in his room right now.

"Yeah, he's definitely gotta go to hospital." Newt interrupted.

"Nope. I don't know who Todd is. Newt is Newt. Can we shift you over Parsnip?" Crowley was looking worried. He probably thought Aziraphale was going nutty. Aziraphale felt like he was going nutty if he were honest.

Newt smiled, offering a reassuring nod to Anathema and a wink to Aziraphale. "Okay. No need to help. We have this. Me and Crow here will do all the hard work." He ordered, turning back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale couldn't have made a move either way. His brain is apparently driven to mush by the pain. He didn't want to think, much less move. "Get on with it then." He croaked.

Being manhandled out of his bed was hardly his idea of a good time. It was made even more uncomfortable by his pain, a slightly tamed beast that turned into a raging bull the moment he wrapped his arms around Crowley's neck and was forced into to move toward an upright position.

"Slow." He hissed under his breath. "SLOW!" He shrieked when Crowley moved too quickly, jostling him horribly. Crowley cursed and snarled, whispering words of comfort, his hands going to support Aziraphale's spine like he was a baby. Burying his face to Crowley's neck, Aziraphale whined and protested the rest of the way up. Finally upright, he was a shivering sloppy mess. He was sure he smelled of sweat and sick. His pajama top was twisted about his waist and rucked up immodestly high, and, sitting up as he now was, he could see that he was missing a sock.

"Alright, easy now, count of three," Newt looped a forearm under his knees, scooping them so he could offer his own form of support. "Anathema, you position the chair, and we will lift. Slow and gentle, try not to jar him." Newt took a deep breath, and the way his brow furrowed was something to be concerned about.

Aziraphale would be horrified, later on, when he recalled the shriek that left him as he was pulled from the bed. How he didn't deafen the lot of them, he couldn't be sure. Dropping his hands from around Crowley's neck, he shakily took hold of the armrests and attempted to help ease himself into the chair. Newt was efficient, dropping his feet into the stirrups and snatching up a pillow to cushion his back. It was Anathema who gently tugged his shirt down, preserving some of his modesty. Crowley just held him, murmuring apologies into his ear as he settled him backward.

"Shh, Crowley, it's okay. I'm okay." He wasn't, but he couldn't stand seeing Crowley so upset. He gave him a weak hug, the intimacy surprisingly easy. "Come on, let's...let's hurry up." And that was a horrible idea. Releasing Crowley, Aziraphale's breath hitched, his heart beating at a rapid pace as he finally caught up to what exactly was happening.

They were leaving the flat and going to the hospital...in a car! _Don't panic, don't-_

"Oh, god." Aziraphale covered his face with his hands, breathing in a ragged breath. Someone's hands pressed to his shoulders, trying to ground him. He hardly noticed, his world narrowing down to a panicked pinpoint, sloshed in pain.

"It's alright, Ezra. Just breath. When was the last time you took an anxiety tablet?" Anathema asked, running long nails through the back of his hair. He shook his head, couldn't even recall when or if he'd taken them. 

"I see the bottle on his nightstand. It's not opened like the rest." Newt spoke up from somewhere behind him, his voice coming to Aziraphale's ears like a tunnel. 

"Please, I can't-" 

"We have to, Parsnip." Aziraphale jumped as hands pressed to his knees. Crowley. He was surrounded on all sides, and he couldn't be sure if that was comforting or terrifying. Cringing, he took in desperate whimpers of air, struggling to breathe through overwhelming terror. 

"I can't-I can't-please?" He moaned desperately, swaying in his seat. A soft sigh followed his pleading. The hands left his knees, and he heard Crowley's long stride as it left the room. Opening his eyes at the sudden loss of touch, he peered through his fingers. Crowley had left. Frustrated, or maybe annoyed, no doubt at Aziraphale's hysterics. He was nowhere in sight. The whole room was a blazing halo of anxiety, the lights shining and spinning in his vision. He couldn't breathe, his lungs tight and growing tighter.

There was the sound of more footsteps and then a swish of heavy fabric. Inhaling desperately, he sobbed in relief as the familiar heavy weight of leather settled on top of his head, blocking out the rest of the world. "Okay, let's give this a try, focus on the music Aziraphale." Crowley's soothing croon filled the space underneath the jacket as he ducked beneath it to join Aziraphale. Fingers worked over his head, pushing headphones up over his ears that trilled with the soft song of a violin solo. 

When he managed to blink away the glare of light from his eyes, he got a look at gentle, warm yellow eyes. There was no judgment in them—just worry and concern. Determination too.

"There you go, Parsnip, just breath, remember?" Aziraphale dragged in a breath and nodded, taking the hand Crowley offered and clinging to it. He pulled in another lungful of air, inhaling Crowley's cologne, both old and new. Crowley's other hand reached out, his thumb brushing aside tears. "Everything's going to be alright. I'm not going anywhere. We'll get you sorted. Then it's right back home!" His hand squeezed gently around Aziraphale's fingers, his touch grounding in the swirling chaos of panic and pain.

"Newt, can I get one of those tablets?" Crowley called, breaking up the soft whispering that was happening behind Aziraphale's shoulders. There was a rustle, and Crowley and his hands disappeared for a moment, coming back with a glass and a tablet. "Alright, if you think you can keep it down?" He offered them up, and Aziraphale accepted, taking each in hand and swallowing the tablet own with shaky movements. The water proved too much to resist, and he drained the glass with desperate pulls of his throat, wheezing in relief.

"You ready?" Crowley's smile lit up the space beneath the blanket. 

And how the heck was he supposed to say no to that. Shoving the glass back at him, Aziraphale took in a fortifying breath. "Bring the bucket," He rasped, pulling the leather in close so he didn't have to look at the gorgeous, ridiculous face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit belated, but chapter 5 is up! I've shared lots of backstory in this one, and things are finally being explained! Also, it looks like my original plan for a 5 chapter story is up in the air, I'm imagining I'm gonna be closer to 7 or 8 by the end of it. I'm enthusiastic, what can I say?
> 
> Loveth me, fair readers? I thrive on your comments and kudos! Bookmark and subscribe for updates!


	6. Dizzy Dreams of Force Feedings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's my writing song for today's chapter  
> Healah Dance by Keaton Heston  
> It's a warm haunting violin piece that pairs well with this chapter. 
> 
> New tag for forcefeeding added

The all-encompassing envelope of Crowley's jacket staved off his terror for the trip downstairs. Deep, woodsy worm cologne with hints of sweat and damp things. That and the rock of the wheelchair swayed him in to compliance as the lift bell dinged, and they made their way downstairs. Aziraphale's fingers clenched the ridged foam of the chair arms, white-knuckled around the cold metal until it heated up under his skin and became damp from fear.

The ride to the hospital was as horrid as he'd anticipated. The water made it's way back up about five minutes in, and Aziraphale was grateful for the bucket as he wretched up the metallic taste of his anti-anxiety med, spilling it and the water in his belly into the bucket with weak, pained heaves. The orchestral music in his ears blocked out the sound of his own retching. That, and the exhaustion that came after, had him drifting for most of the ride.

Crowley talked to him, holding his hand and squeezing it to keep him in the here and now. Not even that helped. It was a rocking, swaying, terrifying cacophony of people and sounds and _pain_ that left him numb and so far dissociated that he almost didn't notice being pulled from Anathema's work van and hauled into the A&E waiting room.

"Christ, if I knew this is what would happen...." Aziraphale heard Crowley whisper distantly. His hand in Aziraphale's was the only thing he was really aware of, warm and all-enveloping. It staved off the chill of the hospital.

"He does this. Dissociation. It's a coping mechanism." Came more distant, sad words.

B"Is he even aware right now?" Newt asked.

"Sometimes, he never really says what he remembers when this happens." She explained. "The jacket thing is a smart trick. Narrows down his focus. You're good with him."

"I should have realized...when I didn't see him." The guilt in Crowley's voice had Aziraphale stirring, squeezing Crowley's hand in an attempt to reassure him. Crowley pressed back, sighing sadly. "He's been lying in that bed for days!" Now he sounded angry, frustrated.

"Hey, calm down. He's noticing you're upset." Anathema chided from Aziraphale's other side.

"The phone wasn't anywhere near him. He couldn't have called for help even if he wanted to." Newt tried to reassure.

After that, he drifted only becoming aware again when the warm grip of Crowley's fingers left his. The onslaught of bright, fluorescent lights had him jolting painfully in his chair. Jerking into some semblance of awareness, he turned to reach for the lost touch. "Crowley?" Panic set in as soon as he saw himself surrounded by doctors and nurses, shrouded in scrubs, not a familiar face in sight. The jacket was gone, and so were the headphones.

"Mr. Device?" A kind older woman offered her hand. He flinched from it, breathing in a ragged whimper. He felt like a caged rabbit. Around him were the warped utensils of a hospital room, IV stand and curtains, trays laid out with tools, and various horrible instruments. Or at least they felt horrible. He hated the hospital. With all his heart. Where was Anathema? Where was Crowley? He was hyperventilating again, his eyes swimming with stars. "Will someone get his case manager?"

Things went blurry again. He found himself on a hospital gurney, shouting out in pain as they rolled him onto his side and pulled his knees to his chest. His anxiety and concerns were low-level and swimming in the haze of what he could only imagine were fantastic drugs- the kind of drugs they didn't like you to use without supervision. Anathema's face occupied the space in front of him, her eyes swimming with held back tears.

"Hey, I'm going to have to go in a moment, sweetheart. They just want me to explain some things to you." Aziraphale reached for her hand, and she held onto him, fingers delicately evading the IV sticking from the back of his hand. Anathema hardly seemed to mind when he squeezed a little too tight from the pain. "You're gonna need some aftercare. You're too dehydrated and malnourished." She sounded pinched and frustrated. Aziraphale had a feeling some of that was directed towards him, but he didn't have the energy to care much. "This is Doctor Brown. She wants to start a feeding tube for a few days and get you back on track. She'll be taking care of you, Ezra."

Dr. Brown stepped into his line of sight. He glanced at her, but again, couldn't find the energy to feel much either way about her presence. "Right now, we're doing an epidural steroid injection Ezra, could you nod if you understand?" He nodded, gasping through the ache of his legs being forced so high up against his chest. "Just hold still, and you'll feel so much better!" She sounded far too cheerful about stabbing him in the back with a needle.

With one last desperate squeeze, Anathema stood up, transferring his grasp to the bunched up sheets before heading out of the room. Her going didn't frighten him half as much as it usually would. Thank god for proper medicine.

It was hard enough to stay still with the pain, but that, combined with the back spasms, was a bit beyond his capabilities. He gasped and moaned his way through the agony of hands, shifting him further into position. Relief finally coming in the sweet bliss of getting numbed up, tiny little pinpricks followed by immediate relief, the local anesthetic doing its work to ease the horrible pain and calm down muscles. They let him relax after that, waiting for the anesthetic to fully kick in as they shuffled around their machines to get the rest of it ready. He drifted in a haze of thoughts, not really here nor there.

More tension, this time less painful, as they forced him back into a fetal position, a nurse holding him that way because there was no way he'd be able to do it himself. "Alright, Ezra, breathe in slowly. You're going to feel some pressure. If you feel any pain, let me know?" Aziraphale panted but forced himself to nod. She was right. There was a slow, gradually deepening pressure. No pain, thank god, just the pop of a needle fitting into the space between his vertebrae followed by an icy chill that he felt tingling down his spine. The needle's withdrawal was more noticeable, a ghastly tugging sensation followed by the plop of plastic on a medical tray.

"Alright, pick up his IV flow. We're gonna pack it in and get him shipped off to a sickroom. He's gonna be out of it, so have a resident on watch for complications. You see him struggling for breath, call it. I'll need Cathy to put in a feeding tube and Jason? You're on catheter duty." Aziraphale might have protested that, except that things suddenly were far hazier than he thought possible. "Make a note. I want a psych evaluation once he's in the clear." He blinked through the encroaching fog but didn't bother fighting it, he was so damn tired, and the pain was finally under control.

Aziraphale felt horrible. Not from physical pain or even emotional anxiety. He was blissfully pain-free, not a twinge nor ache in sight. Emotions were fleeting, and he didn't _feel_ a single thing for very long. Instead, it was the lack of it that left him drifting in the mucky-muck. Foggy and scrambled, he didn't know up from down, nor his arse from his foot. He was drugged out of his mind. 

Too much. He groaned, pressing a hand to his face, and tried to get the room to stop it's careening. If he had any license to feel for longer than a second, he might have actually managed to panic. To beg them to drop down the dose so the room could stop spinning, and he could have a genuine thought.

Anathema sat beside him. He could see that much, if only because of those enormous glasses she insisted on wearing. It hardly mattered. Even if he knew her general location, he still couldn't communicate properly, his tongue thick and useless. His fingers caught on something on his face, tangling in some kind of line. Anathema, she cursed, reaching out to untangle them.

"Careful!" Her distorted blob urged.

"Jesus. Got him on the good stuff, huh?" Crowley huffed. Aziraphale whined, turning to the sound of Crowley's voice. He was a pinwheel of spinning red and black near a dark hole that maybe was a doorway, or possibly an actual black hole. He couldn't be certain. Everything was blurry and undefinable. "Hey Parsnip, don't go begging. I'm right here." Warm fingers entwined in Aziraphale's, wrapping around his hand in a comforting gesture.

"How long's he been awake?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes. He's frustrated with the medicine but can't seem to focus yet."

"Did they put him under?" Crowley's twirly red face dropped down close to his, and Aziraphale cringed at the number of eyes that suddenly took up his vision. Dizzy.

"No, I think it's whatever they gave him for anxiety, or maybe they are still dosing him, so he doesn't freak out." Large hands took hold of his cheeks, steadying his head, and by some miracle, easing the spinning down to a minimum. "He's freaking out right now. Look at him. He just can't tell us cause they have him drugged to the fuckin' eyebrows." The Crowley shape coalesced into something just a bit fuzzy and maybe with only two pairs of eyes this time. Aziraphale gasped in relief, brings his hands up to clutch at Crowley's wrists.

"B-baddd..." Aziraphale managed, the word slurred and barely understandable.

"That's the first thing he's managed to say." Anathema was a distant worried yammer.

"Shhhh, I know Parsnip. Crowley's gonna make it better." More yammering, only some of it getting through. "Yeah, trust me. I know bad trips, and this is fuckin' bad. Go get that cocksicle they got watching from the hallway. They don't give a shite what I say, but if you tell them maybe, they'll do something about it."

Relief came hours later in a gradual sort of way. He had to sleep at some point, and when he became aware again, his head had lost some of its wool coating. His vertigo finally fading into a background swaying that only just discombobulated his equilibrium. That fuzzy layer still settled like snow around him, lending a glowy unreal gloss to the sickroom, but now it was just a light dusting instead of a heavy storm.

He turned his head about, catching sight of both Anathema and Crowley. He could tell just by the way that they sat that time had passed. They were twisted close together, watching something on Crowley's phone. The two of them looked surprisingly comfortable. Somewhere along the way Crowley must have let go whatever grudges he'd been holding against her. Good. He rather liked all his friends being, well, friendly.

Lifting a hand, he brushed fingers through his hair and grimaced at the knotted, sweaty mess of it. His eyes felt itchy and swollen, and when he moved lower, he could feel something odd sticking from his nose. His fingers fluttered over the shape of it. Some kind of tube where it was taped to his cheek and delved up into his nostril. Swallowing, it was a physical thing at the back of his throat, gagging convulsively, he choked at the sensation when it didn't go away.

"Hey, Princess Dizzy Feet is awake."

"Careful Ezra, don't panic. That's the feeding tube, remember?"

The two of them motherhenned from their chairs and over to his bedside, Anathema pulling his hands from his face and Crowley giving his ankles an encouraging squeeze.

"Princess Dizzy Feet?" Aziraphale croaked, furrowing his brow as he stared down at said feet. They were terribly cold, where they stuck out from the blankets, but otherwise, he still couldn't feel much below the waist. Blissful relief. Crowley seemed to notice the chill though and took to tucking Aziraphale in, pillowing them under the scratchy cotton blanket.

Anathema snorted beside him. "You're boyfriend is an idiot. Have I told you that?"

Aziraphale gave her an affronted look at the term 'boyfriend,' casting a glance at Crowley to make sure he was unoffended. "Where's Newt?" He asked, instead.

"He headed out a few hours ago. They wouldn't let all of us back here at the same time." Crowley explained, "And you can't call us boyfriends yet Annie. We're not at that staggggee." He drawled in his usual manner as he dramatically draped himself over Aziraphale's legs. Aziraphale flushed, too tired and fuzzy to read into that too far, but giddiness still bubbled in his belly.

"Careful, his back, you beanstalk!"

"Oy!" He jerked up at that, and Aziraphale laughed tiredly, tugging on red locks to try and keep him where he was. He liked Crowley there, draped across him like a comforting blanket, even if it was a gangly, limb heavy blanket.

"It's alright. Can't feel much past the waist right now." Aziraphale explained, letting his hands fall from Crowley's hair. They were too heavy, and he was far too comfortable to do anything.

"Still, bad idea to lay on sick people." Crowley pouted, shoving himself upright. This close, he looked rough. A wearied version of his usual buoyant self. Stubble adorned his chin and cheeks, much darker than his hair, and giving him a sallow appearance when combined with the dark circles under his eyes.

"I've gotta take a piss. Be right back, alright?" Crowley jerked his head toward the door, giving Aziraphale's toes a quick squeeze. The look he gave Anathema spoke volumes as he headed for the door.

Aziraphale watched him go before turning his attention to his ex-sister-in-law. She looked just as rough, her usually well-kept appearance wrinkled. Her hair was tangled and could use a brush. The fabric of her outfit was crinkled from hours of sitting.

"You two look tired." Aziraphale rasped, reaching out his hand towards her.

"Nah, we're just worried," Anathema explained, leaning forward to take his offered hand and give it a chaste kiss. "You're fan base has grown." She nodded her head towards the door and Crowley's retreating back. Aziraphale followed her gaze, smiling. He was a striking contrast to the puce colored hospital walls. The strut on him. Who strutted in a hospital?

"Can we talk, love?" Her voice grew serious, eyes losing their mirth.

"Like I have a choice." Aziraphale teased, waving a hand towards his current bed-bound self before pulling his other free and wrapping his arms around his middle. He didn't like that look. It didn't bode well. "You've got me stuck here. Go ahead and spill, dearest."

Anathema heaved a sigh. "That's actually what I wanted to tell you about. I don't know if you remember everything from earlier?" Aziraphale shrugged. His memory was spotty at best. How was he to know what he did or didn't recall? "Right, they want to keep you here for a while."

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, but she shushed him. "It's not really on option, Ezra. They're worried about how skinny you are. You'll need to gain some weight before they let you go...and see a psychiatrist. I'm sorry." Aziraphale inhaled sharply, squeezing his arms around himself and glaring down at the wrinkled of his blanket.

"I don't have a choice in any of this?" Aziraphale whispered, voice tight with frustration.

"I'm sorry, Ezra. We won't leave you alone too often, though. Crowley seems more than willing to stick it out." Oh, ugh, wasn't that a horrid thought? Poor Crowley, getting dragged into all of this willy-nilly. He was probably so overwhelmed. Why hadn't he run yet?

"Yeah... a hell of an introduction to all this, huh?"

Anathema shook her head, "Hey, none of that, Ezra." She gave him a glare, her chair squeaking as she leaned forward to give him her full attention. "If you must know, he's taking it all in really well. Not that your some problem that needs to be dealt with. He's just... remarkably understanding." She tilted her head, and for a moment, they considered the peculiar creature that was Crowley.

"Do you mind that he's here? Usually, I'm the only one you let in on this side of things."

Aziraphale considered her words. Surprisingly he didn't mind, which was saying something because Aziraphale loathed showing weakness in front of others. It was part of the reason why he hadn't called anyone after the pain became too much.

"He's...different."

Anathema's smile was a tooth-rotting sweet thing on her lips, and she gave his hand a squeeze and a playful shake. "That's good, Ezra. I won't go sending him home then."

"Send who home?!" Crowley questioned from the doorway, and Anathema raised an eyebrow, sitting up and smiling at the door as Crowley moseyed back inside.

"Just the silly gardener." Aziraphale teased, his cheer forced. He had a lot to think about.

"Oh, haha, tease the ginger. You're lucky you're so damned adorable Parsnip. Or I'd be next city over! " He grouched, dancing out of the way of a nurse who so happened to walk inside just as he did. "I hate hospitals. Hell holes, the lot of them." Crowley and the nurse shared a look. Neither one seemed pleased with the other's existence.

"I'm sorry, dear." Aziraphale flushed when Crowley steered himself to Aziraphale's side. Walking around the base of the bed, he settled next to Aziraphale on the mattress, one leg hitching so that it butted up against his hips. Aziraphale stared down at where they pressed together and couldn't help but curse the numbness of his lower regions. He'd never wished to feel something more than he did that moment.

"Good to see you awake, Ezra." The nurse called, ignoring Crowley's abrasive attitude in favor of looking over Aziraphale's numbers on the machine. How are the new med levels treating you?" The older gentleman asked.

"Much better, thank you." The last was whispered in Crowley's directions, from beneath pale lashes. He could remember only a little bit of his first attempts at waking up, and it had been horrible. If Crowley hadn't been there to say something...

Crowley winked, giving shrug that was Crowley for 'don't mention it.'

The nurse proceeded to poke and prod Aziraphale, checking the IV, and then the nasogastric line. Supposedly it was feeding time, an idea that sounded no more appealing now that it was being spilled directly into his belly than it had before. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose, the feeding tube moved with it, and he had to swallow back the urge to gag. Breathing in shallowly, he bit his lower lip and looked between his two friends.

There was something distressingly intimate about having Crowley and Anathema watch something so unnatural. He could only imagine what they were thinking. Something along the line of 'I told you so,' no doubt. He wasn't an idiot. He was well aware that he was in this situation thanks to his own unwillingness to eat. He would prefer not to be judged for said actions just yet.

"Maybe we should go..." Anathema's eyes were sad as she stood up, tugging on Crowley's shoulder to get his attention. Crowley grunted and seemed to take the hint, sliding reluctantly from the gurney and bouncing on his feet.

"Right, see you soon, Angel." Crowley looked like all he wanted to do was lean down and give Aziraphale a kiss. Instead, he cast another scowl at the nurse and gave Aziraphale's hand a squeeze. "They got my number if you need me."

Aziraphale nodded, feeling bereft as he dropped his hand to squeeze them in the blankets. It was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out for the two of them and asking them to stay. Drugs or no drugs, he really didn't want to be left alone in the hospital. It scared him more than he liked to admit.

"Ta." He whispered, throat tight and aching.

Beside his head, the machine beeped softly, speaking of his raising anxiety, the damn tattletale. The nurse tsked under his breath, reaching for a syringe in his pocket and injecting it into Aziraphale's IV line with efficient movements.

"Hmmm...you lot are the medicate 'em up types, huh?" Aziraphale whispered, watching the plunger dip, but not bothering to protest. The only way he was getting through this experience was with some medicinal help.

"We just want you comfortable, Sir." The man had the decency to look ashamed and hurriedly murmured an apology.

"Well, all's well and good. Maybe just warn a fellow next time." Aziraphale requested, starring down at his folded hands and watching them start to blur. Whatever anger or frustration he might have felt was already being reigned in, pulled under the rug of numbness. He felt almost instantly sleepy.

The tube feeding was next, and that truly was a thing of nightmares. Watching as beige sludge was compressed through the food line via a giant, needle-less syringe. It was a horrible feeling of slowly growing full with no real reason for it. No chewing nor swallowing to say this was where the food was going. It was invasive and distressing even with all the antidepressants. Aziraphale's small stomach cramped midway through, pinching around too much of the nameless sustenance and feeling unreasonably swollen thanks to it.

"Please stop. I'm full." Aziraphale gasped, swallowing compulsively at the rising urge to sick. The nurse looked him over, and he looked suspiciously like he thought Aziraphale might be lying. Well, if he kept going, he'd see real quick how serious Aziraphale was being. He'd puke all over the man just to prove it.

"Alright. I gotta clean the line. Then we're done." He said. Aziraphale ignored him, just slumping on his pillows and dwelling on the overfull balloon feeling of his belly. "I'm gonna come back in a while and do another feeding. The doctor has you on a high-calorie diet," He explained.

It hardly mattered what he said at this point. He was entirely in the control of the doctors and their whims. He was lucky that they hadn't just force-fed him the rest of it. Dragging his blankets up, he closed his eyes and wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into.

The first few times, Aziraphale tried. He tried to maintain a certain decorum as they spilled that mush down the tube. Aziraphale tried not to be a terrible patient. He hated it, but he could be an adult. He could handle it, even though his hands shook and his breath caught, even though it made him feel violated to his very core. Maybe if it had ended there, he would have been okay, but it did not. They came every two hours. Even when he slept, if he was unaware enough, he'd wake up with an achingly full belly and no awareness of when it had become that way.

So yes, as soon as he could think clearly enough, the panic prevailed.

Ripping the feeding tube out was possibly the most horrid feeling ever. It burned across Aziraphale's sinuses and made his eyes water, bringing with it the taste of stomach acid. With a choked gag, he was free of the alien thing. He sobbed with relief, tossing it desperately away from him so that it smacked and dangled from the window blinds, hanging like a haphazard snake.

It was not his best moment. And perhaps not the most well thought out plan. It only took the once for them to restrain him. He woke up to tight, looped bindings around each wrist, tied to the bed rails, and Anathema giving him cow eyes. He couldn't recall her coming in, nor anything past getting free from the feeding tube.

"Wha?" Aziraphale felt foggy and disoriented, and he knew they'd upped his drugs again.

"Shhhh... it's okay, Ezra. We're just trying to keep you calm. You pulled the feeding tube out." Anathema explained. Talking as if he hadn't been the one to do it. He wanted it out. It had most certainly not been an accident. He felt it then, that invasive thing in his nose pulling on the right side of his nostril. Aziraphale turned his eyes up to the ceiling, tears spilling freely down his cheeks.

Aziraphale would later be ashamed to admit that everything went downhill from there.

"No-no-no. Please?!" Aziraphale twisted and pulled at his binding, whimpering at the sight of the now-familiar feeding syringe. He kicked his socked feet and pushed the blankets down his legs, the movements slow and sluggish. He felt like he was slogging through mud, nothing was right, his legs didn't move like they were supposed to, his hands couldn't move, trapped down by his sides. It'd been like this for days, maybe longer, his concept of time was a blur of miserable fear made even more so by a cocktail of drugs.

A broad hand pressed gently on his thigh, squeezing for a moment in an attempt to distract him, but he couldn't take his eyes off that syringe. "I can eat something, please don't give that to me." He gasped, voice a slurred, uncultured version of what it used to be.

"Jesus fuck, will you guys let up for a minute? You're freaking him out. Can't you just get him jelly or some shite?" Crowley snarled beside him, bowing in close to wrap his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders. The nurse ignored him, and Aziraphale sobbed, turning away from the sight and pressing his face desperately against the long column of Crowley's neck. Crowley lifted him close when he couldn't get his muscles to cooperate, rocking Aziraphale with gentle, soothing motions. The pull of the cuffs on his wrists accenting each rocking sway.

"Hey, easy, it's just food love. It's just food." Crowley crooned, voice rough and sad.

By the time they were done, Aziraphale felt exhausted. As usual, his stomach was bloated and achy, his face itchy from dried tears. Half asleep, he heard more than felt Crowley detach from beside him. Squinting, Aziraphale could just see his blurry figure through tear roughened eyes. Crowley was a pissed off ball of energy, pacing the span of space between Aziraphale's bed and Anathema's chair.

"Anathema, seriously. You have to know this is the wrong way to go about this?! All he wants is some fucking-"

Anathema sighed, holding a hand up to stop him mid tirade and gesturing towards Aziraphale's bed. "Come on, let's talk outside."

The sound of them stepping out the door was followed by the hinges squeal as it closed behind them. There was a window set into the wall, and from his angle he could see their silhouetted shapes as they stepped in front of it. They were speaking loud enough to be heard threw the door, if he forced himself to pay attention, he thought he might be able to focus long enough to listen to them.

"I'm serious, Annie." Crowley almost spit her name, his tall frame gesturing aggressively behind the window shades. "You have a guy who's every action is about taking fucking control. And look at him, he couldn't even move without help. That shite they have him on has taken everything from him."

"Crowley, he ripped his feeding tube out! They have to keep him on that medication."

"Can you blame him for it? He's terrified of that feeding tube. How the fuck is that supposed to encourage him to eat? He can't even look at the stuff for Christ's sake!"

"Crowley, I know this sucks, but they are doctors. They know what they're doing." Anathema sounded exhausted and frustrated.

"Oh, don't give me that bull. They're not fucking psychiatrists. They don't give two flying pigs about mental health. As long as they get the body ticking. I'm sorry, but this is wrong. We're making it worse. Look at him and tell me it's not worse?"

There was a weighty pause, followed by a slow inhale.

"I'm sure I should be keeping my mouth shut about this... he's massively underweight, and his body isn't reacting well. He's shutting down, Crowley, or at least, he's close to it."

"The fuck are you on about?" Crowley hissed, a serpent sharp intake of breath. Aziraphale felt about the same. Like he'd been punched in the belly. Why hadn't she told him? He'd been trying to do better, it wasn't even really about the food most of the time, just sometimes he didn't want to eat. Or do much else for that matter.

"I'm telling you that this is the only way, for now. Not forever. Just for now. He needs to gain weight, and he can't do it on his own. God knows I've tried!"

"He's not that bad." Crowley protest, the sound forlorn and sad. Aziraphale cringed, knowing he might be the one to make him sound like that.

"You don't know him from before Crowley. He's only ever looked like this to you. Trust me when I say this is bad. I'm getting him psychiatric help, I am, but first, we have to take care of this."

Silence, followed by the sound of more pacing, their silhouettes shifting behind the window blinds. "Okay. Fuck...but can't we just give him back some control? It's his body, he should be calling the shots. Drop his meds down, so he can have a proper conversation and just give him the option of eating on his own? If he refuses, then yeah, I get it, but he's practically comatose unless they come near him with that syringe, and those handcuffs, Annie. We can't make him a prisoner. He'll never get better if we force it."

"I'll talk to the doctors. I don't disagree with you, but they have the final say."

"If I see him cry again, my hearts gonna fuckin' break..."

The next time Aziraphale opened his eyes, he felt well and truly aware for the first time in days. He stretched carefully, arms and legs tensing in a gradual play of muscles that had him groaning. The first things that he saw were a blue and a green jelly cup, waiting on his lap tray and pride of spot just in front of him. Just to the right stood Crowley, jittery and eager, rocking on his feet impatiently.

"How long have you been standing there?" Aziraphale asked, white teeth flashing as he looked up at Crowley. He could actually see him this time, not just the blurry, marshmallow contours of his face. So he had a prime view of the grin that lit up Crowley's eyes as he spoke, sentence unslurred by medicine for the first time in a while.

"Fuckin' hell, it's good to hear your voice." Crowley was breathless with relief, the smile on his face a lovely thing full of teeth. It was...stunning. Crowley cared, and it shone out of every pore. He must have been so, so, worried. Bending his tall frame, Crowley eagerly leaned down to place a kiss on Aziraphale's lips.

Aziraphale dodged at the last second. Letting warm glossy lips plant themselves on his cheek. "Terrible idea. My mouth is a cesspit darling."

Crowley pouted against his cheek but gave in, blowing a raspberry against the skin before straightening up. Aziraphale snorted, twisting his cheek to his shoulder and rubbing it on his clothes to get the sensation off his skin. He was in some sort of robe, the beige of it honestly very lovely, and it felt wonderfully warm compared to the hospital gown he had on underneath. Careful, with hands that were free and unbound, he adjusted the lapels of it, tying the sash around his narrow hips.

"I didn't know what flavors you liked," Crowley said, drawing his attention back to the table as he pushed the jelly forward.

Aziraphale stared at them, shaking his head and laughing, and maybe a little teary. "Thank you." He whispered through a rapidly congesting nose. He had never been so grateful to see jelly before. Did this mean Crowley had been able to talk to the doctors? Shaking, he took the green cup and dragged it close. He could move freely. He'd never thought that would be something he would miss.

"There's protein powder or some shite on the top. Act like it's sprinkles." Crowley smiled triumphantly as soon as his hand wrapped around the cup, snatching up the other cup and offering a plastic spoon to him with a swish of what Aziraphale could only call magic.

With trembling fingers, Aziraphale bit the spoon into the gelatinous center and brought it to his mouth. Crowley followed along, taking up his own spoon and mimicking Aziraphale so that when the green jelly touched his tongue, the blue did the same for Crowley. They both made similar sounds of contentment. The artificial burst of apple was like bliss for his dry mouth. Only slightly cold, it still felt like heaven. Aziraphale rolled it around, sucking on the soft blob until it almost melted in his mouth. Swallowing was a chore; the tube's sensation in the back of his throat was still an intrusion he couldn't ignore.

"That's lovely," Aziraphale whispered against his spoon, sniffling, he managed to withhold his tears of relief. Crowley looked at him with warm honey eyes that were just as touched with sadness, spoon tapping the side of his container a couple of times. He opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something, then shook his head.

"The protein stuffs not too bad. Kinda like bananas." He observed instead, just giving Aziraphale this moment. Aziraphale was grateful. He didn't want to be reminded of everything just yet. Peering into his cup, Crowley took another spoonful. Aziraphale smiled in thanks, following along.

"You always get your way, huh?" Aziraphale questioned, pocketing his next bite into the side of his cheek so he could speak clearly.

Crowley grinned. The wicked, wicked shark that he was, his pink-tinted lips sharp and a tad menacing. "Only when it's import to me, Parsnip, and right about now, you're really fuckin' important to me."

Aziraphale blushed, swallowing and staring at that desperately lovable face. "You're serious about that?" He asked, the plastic cup squeezing in the nervous twist of his palm. "Even after all this?"

Crowley leaned back on his chair, his eyes running up and down Aziraphale's disheveled form. The smile on his lips didn't dim a bit, despite the lackluster view. "Yeah," he broke away long enough to get another bite of food, waiting for the half-second for Aziraphale to catch up before he popped it in his mouth. "I've taken more than a shine for you poppet. Though maybe that's a discussion for when you're feeling better." One yellow eye disappeared behind a wink.

"Oh Lord, if that isn't something to look forward to," Aziraphale whispered, lips twisted in a happy little smirk. He didn't bother waiting for Crowley to eat the next bite, hurriedly plopping a spoonful into his mouth before he went and said something embarrassing. Crowley squawked a protest, snapping up a large dollop to catch up. They ate the rest in comfortable silence.

Cup empty, Crowley dropped his chair back into all four legs and crouched to disappear behind the bed stand. "Alright, on to course number two. First, we'll set the mood." With a grunt and an off-key 'ta-da,' he plopped a large potted plant on top of the lap desk. It's broad, giant leaves proceeded to slap Aziraphale in the face.

"Hey, be polite! Aggressive beasty, this one. Meet Dieffenbachia, otherwise known as Tropic Snow. She's a fine little five year old with nary a fungi nor a leaf out of place." Crowley showed her off with a swish of his hands before using them to pat said leaves out of Aziraphale's face.

Aziraphale stared at her, twisting his hands in his lap. "Oh Crowley, she's lovely..." He touched a leaf and was relieved to see she wasn't as fragile as she looked. "I'm afraid I'd kill her in an instant."

"Oh, no!" Crowley hurriedly tried to explain, "She's hardy, and I'll be around to tell you when to water her. Plus, she's supposed to cleanse the air or some shite, remove the bad juju or something like that. Figure she's perfect for hospital!" Crowley pursueded, the way his lower lip broke into a pout doing things to Aziraphale's belly.

"Yes, yes. Of course. But if I kill her, it's not because I don't care." Aziraphale held up his hands to stop Crowley's boisterous fist bump, wiggling a finger in warning.

"I'm prepared to live with the consequences." Crowley flapped his hand about, waving away Aziraphale's concerns. "Okay, then. Course two. This counts as a date, by the way." Disappearing again, this time, he came forth with a hefty six-pack of something.

Protein Shakes.

"This is possibly the worst date I've ever been on then."

"Wah? I worked hard on this. I had to go into a grocery store to find these. A grocery store Aziraphale! How pedestrian is that?"

"Right, right. Sorry to offend. Carry on." Aziraphale giggled at the poxed expression on Crowley's face and settled back among his pillows. His back sent up a twinge, and he hissed, adjusting himself to relieve it.

"Oh, I will." Crowley winked and deposited a straw within the open bottle with an unnecessary amount of flourishing. He offered it to Aziraphale with a bow.

Aziraphale accepted it with reluctance. Peering inside, he sighed when he caught sight of milky pink fluid, the scent of strawberries coming from the open lid. Thank god, if it'd been brown, he might have had a panic than and there, just on principle. They clinked their bottles together in a mock toast.

"I worked my magic with your doctors, who are of," his hand see-sawed in a waving motion, "Mixed opinions, but what Crowley wants, Crowley gets. So, end result, two of these suckers equals one tube feeding." He tucked his lips around the straw, sucking down the chilled shake enthusiastically. "Maths aren't my strong suit, but one jelly with banana sprinkles is about a third, so, three jellies is one full feeding, but who's gonna eat three fucking jellies?"

Aziraphale stared at Crowley. "They listened to you?" He questioned.

"Well, to Anathema, but yeah, they did."

Aziraphale had never been so pleased to see a shake before. He wasn't sure when the last time was that someone had cared so much as to fight for him. Crowley was... fantastic... wonderful... beautiful. Hiccuping around his straw, he dropped his bottle to the table and reached Crowley with desperate arms. Crowley came willingly enough, scrambling to wrap Aziraphale up into a comforting grip.

"Hey...hey..shhhh..."

Aziraphale buried his face into the collar of Crowley's V-neck shirt, blubbering messily against the fabric. So, so relieved. "Thank you so much. Thank you." He cried, "you have no idea how much I hate this thing." Even now, he could feel the tube tug against a button of Crowley's shirt, the sensation like a bug in his throat.

"I know." Crowley's chin settled on top of his forehead and was quickly replaced by his lips. "It's not a huge solution. They still have to feed you. There's no way you'd be able to drink enough protein shakes to make up for the feedings, but if you play it right, you'll give yourself a couple hours of break."

Aziraphale nodded, sniffing into the material and nodding his head. "It's something."

Crowley hummed, taking in a deep breath to compose himself. After a moment, he pulled back, peering down at Aziraphale with a wrinkled nose. "No offense, but you're starting to reek. Finish that shake up while I hunt down someone to give you a sponge bath."

Blushing down to his toes, Aziraphale moaned. "Don't do that! I can take care of myself."

"Psshhh, it's the only benefit of being in that bed. I'll find someone fit for you. Any preferences?" His eyebrows were doing something ludicrous, dancing about his forehead suggestively as he looked back over his shoulder. Turning away, he seemed to spot someone, seeing as he broke into a jog and disappeared around the corner.

"Miss?!"

"Oh, god..." Aziraphale covered his face with his hand but had the presence of mind to reach for his shake and slurp down a mouthful. It wasn't horrible. What's more, he was the one putting it in his body. And he had at least one more to go if he wanted to avoid the next hour's feed time.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley singsonged, ushering through the door a lovely woman with impeccable...assets. "Look who I found." He followed behind, his eyebrows lifting in a suggestive leer that may or may not have been put on just to make Aziraphale blush. "Nurse Ri Ena's gonna help you out." He winked, and Aziraphale thought he might die of embarrassment right then and there.

"Afternoon, dear, so sorry about my friend." Aziraphale cast Crowley a dark glare, shooing him away with a wave of his fingers.

"Nuh-ah!" Crowley interjected, waggling his finger. "More than friends, we don't have labels, though, so... we could be tomatoes far as I care or... whatever." Crowley was enjoying himself far too much, the snakey fellow. "I'm off, Angel. Enjoy yourself." Like that, he was gone, and Aziraphale was left starring dazed and dumbfounded at the door.

Nurse Maria tittered behind her hand, shuffling the basin and sponges about on cart and looking like she was enjoying herself just as much. He wouldn't put it past Crowley to have her in on it.

"Bathtime?" She teased.

Aziraphale sighed. "Is a shower out of the question?" She shrugged, looking him up and down.

"If you wanna take the fun out of it." She winked and then burst out laughing. "He told me to say that. Sorry, sorry. Showers fine."

"That man gets more and more ridiculous the longer I get to know him." Aziraphale sighed, the grin on his cheeks making his teeth hurt. Somehow he didn't mind in the slightest.

"Oh, you sound like you say that often." Nurse Maria teased, unlocking the rails beside his bed with a flick of her wrist. "I'm guessing shower time it is?"

"That would be lovely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say, that while Aziraphale does have some sort of nameless eating disorder, I don't actually think he was putting himself in any supreme danger until now. It more than likely is from being generally underfed, as well as a combination of suffering for days without food or water and with lots of liver mean medications. Basically all of those combined have led to his current predicament.
> 
> Also, American here, I've done my best to research but all my experience is going to come from american hospitals. If something is off let me know, I'll see what I can do to resolve it  
> There is lots o protective Crowley in this. Which is pretty much what I live for. Fight the good fight Crowley!
> 
> I'd love to hear from you all! Kudo, comment or subscribe to your hearts desire. Much love my little kittens!


	7. Sunflower in my Eye

In all his life, Aziraphale had never anticipated that his most important job would be to get fat. It was slow, so slow that he was impatient and maybe a little annoyed with his progress. Week one, the week in which he was drugged off his rocker for most of, had resulted in an astronomical growth spurt of precisely one and three-quarter pounds. He knew this because he'd just had a baleful staring contest with the scale, in which the scale had outright won. 

All that horrible suffering for a piddly one and three-quarter pounds? Feeling very grumpy indeed, he let the nurse lead him back to his sickroom, settling into his wheelchair's confines with an even darker feeling than he had before. Wheelchairs and protein-shakes. Was that really what he had to look forward to until they let him out of this hell hole? He wasn't invalid, but dammit if they wouldn't let him take a step on his own. His arm crutch was lost in the wind, and according to the professionals, he was a 'fall hazard.' The cherry on top was that he had been moved into some sort of special ward—a part of the hospital designated for people who had his 'issues.'

He wasn't even sure if he had 'issues.' Well...not the type they were worried about, anyway.

"I know it seems only a small amount, Mister Device, but it's really fantastic news. Every pound you gain is helping to put all those nutrients back in order. And when your liver starts to kick back into gear, you'll feel even better." Nurse Maria chirped her usual chipper self undaunted by his scowl. 

"Yes, well, forgive me for not seeing where less than two pounds is going to help." Aziraphale sighed, propping his head upon his arm and forcing himself not to ignore her, even though he was not in the general mood for conversation. 

"It'll add up soon, you'll see, once you stop feeling so lousy."

"I don't feel lousy...I just want to go home." Aziraphale moaned, dragging his hand down his face. If he were to think about it, yes, he felt lousy. He was still lethargic and continuously on the edgy of nausea. His nose felt horrible from the NG tube, and he was none too happy about the feedings he was receiving. He didn't say any of that aloud, though. He was sure that he'd made all if it known at one point or another. Best not to gripe all the time unless he wanted to get on the nurse's bad side.

"Soon, dear, in the meantime, it's best just to carry on. You're doing great, even if you don't think so." Nurse Maria offered. Pushing him into the sickroom with a squeak of rubber over the threshold.

Anathema and Crowley looked up from their now customary seats, both looking horribly expectant and hopeful.

"Well?" Crowley asked, turning down the volume on his phone and leaning forwards eagerly.

Didn't that sting, Crowley was always so darn hopeful, and here Aziraphale was, flopping at his only job right now, as usual. Shrugging, he avoided their hovering in favor of getting out of the wretched chair. He felt like a failure. Worse yet, he knew that the two would toot and holler for any weight gain- biased, is what they were. Nurse Maria tsked, assisting and waving down his eager friends all at the same time. 

"Give him a moment, and he's not exactly pleased." She explained.

Aziraphale snorted, wincing at the way the tube jolted in his nose. He touched it gingerly but dropped his hands when the whole room visibly tensed. As if they were expecting him to yank it out right then and there. Nurse Maria patted his hand away, bending to examine him with careful fingers.

"Less than two pounds is nothing to be pleased about." Aziraphale groused to his audience, turning his head up so she could better see.

"What?!" Crowley crowed, as expected, giving Anathema's shoulders a shake. "That's fantastic, right?" He looked to the nurse for approval, his grin growing as she nodded her agreement.

"It's wonderful, right on track!" She emphasized, snatching up an otoscope off the wall and continuing her examination. Aziraphale rolled his eyes but stayed still as she shined the tool up his nose. Crowley's enthusiasm was infectious, though, and he found himself smiling despite his foul mood. 

"Right on track," Anathema repeated, "See? nothing to be upset about, love." Anathema encouraged, watching Crowley bounce about like an eager puppy.

Putting the scope away, Nurse Maria turned to pop his IV bag from the chair IV stand and back onto the one at his bedside. He didn't need the heart monitor or any other wildly annoying machinery that had occupied his first few days here. "Exactly, any weight is good weight, and, in the scenario, it's harder to gain than to lose, so you should be proud of yourself, Mister Device. As for that nose, it's not looking very happy. I'll talk to the doctor about swapping over to the other nostril." 

Anathema and Crowley hissed in unison. 

Aziraphale groaned. "Fantastic," He groused, casting his eyes toward the ceiling and taking in a deep breath to calm himself down. He hated this. "Very well, let's top off on the good stuff then." He'd very much not like to be fully aware when they did that, thank you kindly! Thanks to Crowley, he had that choice now.

"Probably a good idea." Nurse Maria admitted. "Alright, off with you lot, visiting hours are over, and Mister Device needs a good meal." She commanded, urging Crowley and Anathema out of their chairs. 

Aziraphale groaned, "But I've had three shakes today?!" He pleaded, giving the two a careful hug between fear weakened arms. He couldn't help it. No matter how many times he did it his first gut reaction to seeing that syringe was sheer panic. Even so, he waved them away.

After she received the doctor's approval, the procedure itself was ridiculous fast this time around. Aziraphale coughed and choked his way through the original tube being removed and did much the same as they inserted the new one. His eyes watered, and his face felt raw and puffy after, but there was none of that all-consuming panic he'd felt before. It wasn't as bad as he thought, and there was something therapeutic about being aware of what was happening this time around. It was hardly some horrible, intrusive creature that suddenly appeared in his nose. Instead, he'd permitted it to be there, and while he certainly didn't like it, he knew it was necessary. 

Some hours later, still slightly hazy and queasy from not one but two syringes of goop, Anathema and Crowley returned for evening visiting hours. Moodwise, he felt somewhat better after a midday nap and a mope about. Taking one look at him, they decided that, since he'd done so well, he deserved something of a present. 

Which was how he found himself with Anathema's dexterous fingers working through his hair, untangling the worst of his knots from her position tucked behind Aziraphale. She was in a less than formal set of mauve joggers and matching top, her legs sprawled on either side of him and acting as armrests for his dangling fingers. He would generally be nowhere near comfortable enough to lay down in such a manner, but he took advantage of the steroids, now that they had finally kicked in, and steroid Aziraphale had a much freer range of motion.

Today was pamper day, according to his dynamic duo, and they'd come prepared. Crowley with a basket of various nail polishes and lotions, Anathema following close behind with his favorite blanket and pillow, and a toothbrush, thank God. Aziraphale had suffered through the cheap, hospital toothbrush they'd provided and craved clean teeth.

Currently, Crowley was bowed over Aziraphale's toes, lacquering them a brilliant red that matched his own nails. "Oh my God, your pinky toes are itty bitty." He teased, taking one up and wiggling it. Aziraphale giggled, tugging his foot free before the demon attempted at actually tickling him. Anathema looked up long enough to snicker along with the boys, shaking her head.

"Pass me the brush, Crowley?"

"Right." Crowley searched around and found it stashed in his basket. He handed it off before returning to his job, taking said tiny pinky toe and delicately painting it, fingers light as a feather where they surrounded the small appendage. 

"You know, you're rather good at that." Aziraphale murmured drowsily, leaning into the tines of the brush as Anathema worked his curls. Ugh, he was always so sleepy of recent. He'd only just woken from a nap. Yet, there was something about being completely and utterly pampered that he didn't know he'd been missing. He hadn't had this in a long time. 

"Have to be. Otherwise, I'd spend loaaads on manicures. My nails get trashed from all the planting. Not that I mind, I love my job."

"Have you always been a gardener?" Anathema asked by Aziraphale's ear, fluffing his hair about and seemingly at a loss to tame it. Aziraphale forced himself awake at that, eager to unveil more of the mystery of Crowley.

"Oh yeah, on and off for who knows how long," Crowley explained, smiling. "I've worked every garden this side of London, and beyond probably. Used to have a business with some mates. Newt was one of 'em, actually. He gave it up a few years before me. We only just met up again a month or two ago. It's weird how you can lose track of people." He paused to blow on his work, watching them dry with conservative eyes. His cheekbones looked lovely in the fluorescent light, and at some point, he'd managed to give himself a shave. He'd been running himself ragged between all the visits and maintaining his work at the flats.

"Do you like working in The Garden?" Aziraphale asked shyly. He'd be disappointed if Crowley hated his job. The day Crowley left would be terrible indeed. 

"Well...there are some perks," Crowley winked, the saucy minx. "It's a good fit. And it's not like they can throw me out. My brother owns the property. I bought the flat off him, though. I ain't no freeloader!"

"Never thought you were!" Aziraphale hurriedly interrupted when it looked like Crowley might go on. It sounded like someone had tried to insinuate that in the past. Poor Crowley.

"My brother-in-law would say different. Hastur's an ass, though. I don't have a fuckin' clue what Ligur sees in him." Crowley snorted, Aziraphale followed suit, if only because anyone who had a chip with Crowley was bound to be on his bad side. Crowley was a sweetheart, kind, generous, a saint with a minor penchant for cursing. Aziraphale found him positively fascinating. 

"Humph, well, next time you see him call me up. I'll have a word or two!" Aziraphale announced, interrupted by Anathema's laughter from her place behind him. 

"Oh, likely." She scoffed, giving him the tiniest of shoves. "I'm sorry, Ezra, but you're the least confrontational person I know. You let that dove live in your rafters for weeks. Crap everywhere."

"She was a lovely lady. And it's so rare to see the brown ones!" Aziraphale protested, remembering the sweet little thing. She'd come in through the window one winter morning, more than upset at the chill. Aziraphale hadn't had the heart to kick her out back into the cold.

"Crap... everywhere," Anathema explained to Crowley's raised eyes brows. Aziraphale sighed, that had been...a drawback.

"It was my fault, what with leaving the window open, she probably was confused."

Crowley chuckled, setting aside his polish and leaning back in his chair. "Well, it's the thought that counts. You can be my chivalrous knight any day, Angel. Just your eyes would be enough to break that arse Hastur in two. Look at those baby blues." 

Aziraphale blushed as red as his toes. 

"You two are so adorable it hurts," Anathema announced behind him, thwapping the top of his head with the brush. Crowley grinned, far too pleased with the end result of his flirting.

Aziraphale hated the hospital. His companions made it better, in certain ways, but they weren't there all of the time. In fact, he was left alone for the bulk of it unless they were forcing him to eat or checking his blood. By himself, he was prone to being a solitary fellow, drinking his protein shakes, and lingering in self-doubt and pity. 

When he was alone, his thoughts turned to what brought him here in the first place. When thinking about it, he couldn't honestly say why he didn't eat. It wasn't about weight. He had no particular feelings toward his body or its looks at this point. Its primary purpose was just to get him around. And up to now, there hadn't been anyone to look good for.

All it came down to, in his head, was just a natural aversion to the stuff. To the tedious nature of prepping and cutting and boiling the same meaningless food over and over again, with no one to share it with but silly old Aziraphale. Dull, boring, lame Aziraphale with his bad back and his even worse personality. 

He'd tried. Fruit and little tidbits hadn't been too bad. The peaches were decent, easy to slice, or just eat whole. He used to enjoy toast too, though it'd become a relative to ash of recent. He always forgot it in the toaster, and in the end, all that remained was an overcooked lump of wheat- entirely inedible. When that happened, he more often than not just left it. He wasn't hungry anyway, so why bother?

And wasn't that the heart of the problem? He wasn't hungry, ever. Be it the drugs, his depression, or even his anxiety. He had no appetite most of the time. Feeding himself was like feeding the birds, something to do, nothing more. Most of the time, he would rather read. Or research... maybe sleep.

Look where that got him! 

"Daft, silly fool," Aziraphale whispered, glaring at his hands where they were twisted together on his lap. He could barely see them, for the tears that marred his vision, puddling in his eyes before dropping in rivulets down his cheeks.

Nurse Marie found him like that. He barely noticed her at first, hovering beside him, waiting to be acknowledged. Turning his head up, he startled. 

"Oh, bother," He hiccuped, "So sorry, have you been standing there long?" Wiping at the tears on his cheeks rapidly to try and hide them away.

Nurse Marie sighed, leaning her hip on the bed railing and giving him a considering look. "Alright then, up you go."

Feeling perplexed, Aziraphale looked around. "I've already showered today?" He asked, anxiety making his heart jump in leaping palpitations. 

"Oh, I know, I was there, sweetheart." Nurse Maria offered a reassuring smile and a saucy wink. "Nope, I'm taking you to see Doctor Loquacious. You're stable enough, and she has New Patient Hour coming up in fifteen minutes." She explained, taking Crowley's jacket from the foot of his bed and moving to drape it over one of the room chairs. Aziraphale snatched Crowley's coat from her, clutching it tightly and breathing in slow breaths. 

"I don't want to leave my room." He whispered. He had barely left his hospital room to go to the scale across the hall. It was, without a doubt, a horrible idea to leave it now. He didn't know where she would be taking him or what lurked outside the small area he'd managed to tag as safe in his forced time in the hospital. "Please." Clinging to the leather cuffs, he felt on the verge of something horrible. He tried to push it down. It wouldn't do to have a panic attack when residing in what basically amounted to a psych ward.

"Hey now, Mister Device, there's nothing to worry about. Doctor Loquacious is a fantastic psychologist. She knows what she's doing. Can you tell me what the problem is?" Nurse Maria waited for him to calm, stepping back to give him room to breathe. It only just helped, and Aziraphale ducked his head into the fabric of Crowley's coat, dragging in a gasping breath.

"I have p-problems with new places." Aziraphale managed to stutter out, voice muffled by the heavy fabric. They had to know this. Someone should have told them by now, right?

"Okay-alright. Would it make you more comfortable if I had the doctor come to your room?"

Aziraphale dragged in deep breaths, his ears ringing even as he tried to remind himself how to do it properly. _Inhale for four...hold for seven...exhale for eight._

"Yes?" He didn't know why he asked it like a question.

"That's great, Ezra. Thank you for helping me." Aziraphale could have cared less at this point. _Inhale for four...hold for seven...exhale for eight._ "I am going to go have a chat with the doctor." 

Aziraphale let her go, ignoring the orderly that took up her position a few moments later. By the time she came back, he had himself more or less under control. His panic attack had been minor at worst, and though he felt on the verge of tears, it was more from shame than anything else.

When she came into the room, Doctor Loquacious was not what he was expecting. His last psychiatrists had been a bear of a man. Intimidating and forthright in everything he did. He'd held little to no opinion on Aziraphale and had mostly just checked a few boxes and signed Aziraphale up on the medication for life bandwagon.

Doctor Loquacious was different, small in stature, but seemingly self-assured and good-natured. The first thing she did upon seeing Aziraphale was smile. A warm, comforting look that suited the soft yellow of her button-down top. He liked yellow, yellow was good.

"Afternoon, Mister Device!" She announced herself with a soft-spoken voice. 

"Good day," Aziraphale inclined his head, forcing himself to release the jacket long enough to shake her hand. She had warm hands too. 

"Nurse Verbose let me know that you weren't feeling up to a trip today." She explained, nodding her head in thanks to Nurse Maria before ushering her out and closing the door.

"I just wanted to explain my position here. I'm a psychologist. My job is to help you work through some of your issues. I'm here to listen and to get some understanding of how to help you." She smiled, grabbed the doctor's stool, and settled it a few feet away before taking a seat. Aziraphale nodded. He was aware of what her people did.

"So, that means I'm not a psychiatrist. I'm not here to diagnose you. If I think you need that, I can send you on to Doctor Garrulous. All I want to do is find out more about you. And maybe help you cope with everything that's happening. Is that okay?"

Aziraphale nodded again because, for the first time in a while, words had apparently left him. 

"Mr. Device? I think you and I should get to know each other. I'd like to set you up in my schedule so we can continue our discussion. Is there any way I could convince you of coming to my office?"

That sounded like a terrible idea, indeed. Glancing from the door and to the outside world, the dread was building up even at the thought. Aziraphale barely noticed himself withdrawing from the conversation, wrapping his arms around his waist and pressing himself deep into the pillows.

"Okay, it's alright, Mr. Device. Can you take a deep breath in?" Aziraphale dragged an inhale through his nose. "One,two,three,four. Look at you, you're a pro at this."

What a bloody shit thing to be a pro at! He held his breath and let it out with a whump of exhaled air.

"Are you diagnosed agoraphobic?" 

Of course, she wouldn't know. This was a new hospital. They wouldn't have his medical information on file.

"Yes, quite so." He managed to say.

"Oh, that has to be a bother. Could you tell me some of your triggers?"

"Nnnn..." Rubbing a hand over his face, he forced himself to focus on her question. He was feeling a disassociation episode creeping up, too many questions, too much prodding and digging. 

She's only trying to help. He reminded himself.

"Cars, loud noises, horn honks....umm," it was a long list, "Screaming, sirens, outside...in general. I don't go outside."

"Would it help you if I told you there were no vehicles or windows from here, to my office? Just boring old hallways, with maybe one or two skylights. We're nowhere near the A&E, so there won't be any ambulances. The only risk you would run into is possibly another patient. Is that doable for you?"

That was...not horrible. The biggest thing he was afraid of was traffic. If he took that out of the equation, he thought he might be able to handle the rest. If what she said was true, it'd be just like walking down the hall at his flat complex. 

"Yes, alright." He whispered his voice a tight, wary thing. "But...if something-"

"You're under no pressure to come. If you don't think you can make it out the door, Nurse Voluble can come fetch me!" She was so unbelievably chipper. He found himself smiling shyly back, not wanting to disappoint. 

"Fantastic, I'll see myself out. I look forward to our next meeting Mr. Device."

"Ezra, you can call me Ezra." He'd heard his own last name far too much for comfort the previous few days. 

"Of course, good day Ezra."

And that was how Aziraphale, by no decision of his own, gained a therapist.

Aziraphale moaned, clutching the bedsheets and squeezing his eyes closed at the aching burn of muscles. His back stretched, his thighs strained. He was pretty sure he'd pop at any moment.

"Oh, Lord, slow down, please." He hissed, whimpering with relief as the pressure eased up slightly.

"You alright?" 

"Yes, yes. Thank you, dear."

The sound of rubber on linoleum tiles squeaking had them both turning their heads towards the sickroom door.

"The fuck?" Crowley stood there with a perplexed look on his face, the bouquet of flowers in his hands drooping towards the floor. 

Aziraphale smiled a bright, joyful thing that lit up his cheeks and was probably much to telling of his appreciation for the other man. 

"Hello, Anthony! You're early!" He let out a soft shriek as Newt twisted his legs gently to the side, his hip muscles protesting the motion with great bravado. How horrible that felt. Newt called it progress. Aziraphale called him a sadist. 

"Haven't you two become friends fast?"

Newt grinned at his friend from his position just in front of Aziraphale. He was leaning somewhat precariously on the bed. One knee tucked into the back of Aziraphale's thigh, one hand cupping Aziraphale's hip while the other guided Aziraphale's knee across his body.

"Just helping Ezra out with some stretches. His glutes are like old rubber bands!"

Aziraphale whined, fingers twisting in the sheets tighter as Newt released his left leg, only to then take up the same stretch position with his right. When he turned back to Crowley, it was to see a blush staining high up on his cheeks, his golden eyes flickering between Aziraphales clenched fists and his no doubt sweat-dampened face.

It was only then that Aziraphale realized what all this must look like.

"Oh, dear! I suppose this does look a tad bit...intimate."

Newt snorted, finishing his count to thirty before releasing Aziraphale's leg. "Nah, he's just imagining your 'oh' face."

"Newt!

"Newt!!" The two of them shouted in unison, Aziraphale aghast and Crowley blushing an even brighter red that was rapidly splotching across his chest. The flowers in his hands were quickly becoming a makeshift shield to hide his face behind. Aziraphale found it to be possibly the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. Up to now, he didn't think Crowley could _be_ adorable. Sexy as hell, yes, but adorable? My, my, was it a treat.

"Oh, did I say that out loud, sorry?" Newt held up his hands, looking only somewhat remorseful. Aziraphale couldn't blame him, the poor lad was honestly trash at self-censorship and had the dexterity of a mop bucket. He was all-around a walking disaster, judging by Aziraphale's experience with him thus far.

Crowley just looked slightly murderous. "Maybe you should go find a nibble down at the canteen?" He ordered, one eyebrow raised so high it was in danger of toppling off his forehead.

Aziraphale giggled, waving a farewell to poor Newt as he pushed the button on the bed to bring himself back into a sitting position. 

"Mmm, come here." Aziraphale reached a hand out for Crowley, urging him close with a wave of his fingers. "You look so pretty when you blush." He teased. Crowley looked mildly offended. 

"I'm not pretty."

"Oh, I beg to differ," Aziraphale said, squirming as the mechanics whirred cheerily into an upright position. He shifted himself into the most comfortable spot he could find. Something that involved his left leg hitching up against the bed rail and his right spread just a tad beyond the proper. His muscles ached and felt rubbery and loose. One thing was certain, Newt was fantastic at his job.

"Newt says I have the back of a ninety-year-old." Aziraphale took pity on the poor man and changed the subject. "On the plus side, my ankles seem to be in tiptop condition!" Aziraphale teased. Crowley leaned over, hiking the blankets up to take a peek at Aziraphale's fuzzy hospital socks and exposed ankles. 

"Ahhhh, those are the ankles of a twenty-something foot model. Very nice." He drawled, cheeky snake. 

"Why, thank you." Aziraphale preened, reaching for his bouquet and smiling at today's flowers. Sunflowers. He had one for every day of the week so far, and not a one was as dull as roses. Mondays had been daisies, and Wednesday's an ingenious head of broccoli done up with ribbons. The broccoli was doing quite well, actually. All of them lined up the window pane, bowing brightly to the sun.

Bending, he breathed in a cleansing breath of sweet floral scents. If he closed his eyes, he imagined he might be far and beyond his tiny sickroom. "Oh, these are lovely, my dear." Aziraphale smiled, turning his head up to offer Crowley his thanks with a warm smile. Crowley smiled back, crooked teeth gleaming, eyes that matched the sunflowers in both color and name. He was like the sun, warm and shining. Stunning.

"Jesus," Crowley croaked, under his breath, eyes latched on to Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale wondered what Crowley was seeing in him at that moment, he sounded just as stunned. "You've got some pollen there." He spoke up louder, voice deepening into a sultry drawl as he reached out to run a thumb across the swell of Aziraphale's lower lip. Aziraphale drew in a hissing intake of breath at the calloused touch, closing his eyes and parting his mouth instinctively. The soft grit of pollen played across his skin.

"Is it gone?" Aziraphale whispered, peeking out from under hooded eyelids. Crowley was within inches of his face, looking him over with scrutinous eyes. 

"Hmmm...no," His thumb took hold of Aziraphale's chin, turning it this way and that. "There's more." Crowley leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to Aziraphale's cheek, lips moving down in a slow trail along his cheek, deftly evading the nasal tube to end up with a soft press against the corner of Aziraphale's mouth. 

It was Aziraphale, warm and giddy with pent up need, that took it to the next step, turning his head to catch Crowley's mouth with a contented sigh.

Soft and warm, Crowley greeted him back, making a sound of approval and taking Aziraphale's cue with eager abandon. "Mmm..." His lips parted around the swell of Aziraphale's to take him in with slow, drawn-out kisses. One heavy palm settled into the curve of Aziraphale's jaw, the other crinkled in the bedsheets to give himself something to lean.

For his part, Aziraphale's fingers dropped their hold on the bouquet, flowers forgotten as he shyly twined his fingers around Crowley's wrist, squeezing it tight enough to feel his pulse beneath his skin. He couldn't think past how soft Crowley felt against his lips, how warm and overpowering he was even with just a simple kiss. 

Heat curled Aziraphale's toes, neediness making him shift and shiver in his hospital gown. What a visual the two of them must make, a silly, foggy-headed photographer and the beautiful gardener five years his younger. Aziraphale found he didn't care, let them think what they would. For now, Crowley was rapidly becoming his, and he'd take this moment for what it was.

Tilting his head Crowley deepened the kiss, growling playfully under his breath and nipping at Aziraphale's lower lip until Aziraphale opened it enough to allow his tongue a taste. 

"Oh...my...God," Anathema's shocked voice broke their moment, her tone gradually rising until he thought she might just burst from shock or maybe excitement. Possibly both.

Aziraphale burst into a soft gush of laughter, his breath huffing against Crowley's cheek as he turned his head to hide it in the crease of the other man's neck. 

"Can we get no peace?" Crowley groaned against Aziraphale's neck, letting off enough to cast a glare in Anathema's direction. "Maybe you should come back later? Newt's in the canteen." 

"How is it that your laying in a hospital bed and getting more action than I am, Ezra?" Anathema jabbed playfully, her brown eyes glittering with amusement at their expenses.

"Annie!"

"Anathema!" Aziraphale thought that he might die of embarrassment for the second time that day. Crowley just growled like a damn dog. 

"Fine, fine, I'm going." It was Aziraphale's grip on Crowley's wrist that was the only thing that kept Crowley from tossing a pillow in her direction to hurry her along.

"I swear, between the two of them they have half a brain cell." Crowley groused, bending to press nibbling kisses along Aziraphale's lower lip.

"Oh, be kind. There's at least a couple more in Anathema." Aziraphale teased, his lower lip stinging as his words tugged it out of Crowley's teeth. Sucking his lower lip into his mouth, he looked over Crowley's intriguing face. "It is the hospital, dear. We are being a tad bit indecent."

"Hmmm, do you mind?" Crowley leaned back, putting some space between them. His keen eyes took on a devilish glint, his eyebrows doing that suggestive dancing thing again.

"Oh, only if you do." Aziraphale demurred, tugging lightly at the hem of Crowley's shirt to draw him in closer. Crowley growled again, this time a low, pleased sound of approval as he gave in, dropping down to tangle their mouths once more. Aziraphale's breath caught in his lungs, a whimpering sound of endorsement drawing out of his vocal cords as Crowley showed him exactly how much he did not mind public displays of affection.

When they finally came up for air, it was to slightly crushed sunflowers and mussed hair. Crowley looked positively delightful with his lips love-bit red and his pupils like dinner plates, round and taking up most of his eyes' color. Aziraphale felt hot all over, tingly and on the edge of longing. He could feel his cheeks stained with a blush, and the smile on his face was positively giddy.

"Oh, good, You're done." Newt groused from the door, drawing both their attention. He and Anathema stood together, intimately close for two people who were close to strangers only a week ago—Anathema lurking behind Newt, grinning. Above him, Crowley rolled his eyes in a look only Aziraphale could see before spinning around, whatever he was going to say lost as he saw what Newt was carrying in his arms.

"Food!" He crooned, two strides taking him to the other man's side before he was snatching up a bottle of orange juice and a muffin. "Oh, I could make out with you, you marvelous brat." He growled, dragging Newt into a chokehold of a hug. Newt yelped his disapproval, dropping a napkin as he twisted free from Crowley. 

Crowley released him, his mouth full before he'd even made it back to his spot on the bed, crumbs dribbling down onto Aziraphale's covers as he bit the top off the muffin. Aziraphale watched, in awe of how much Crowley could stuff in his face. 

"Oh...that not- close your mouth, you fiend." Aziraphale yelped, ducking his head to hide from the pervasive crumbs.

"Oh yeah, that's gross," Anathema announced, settling in the chairs beside Newt and taking her own snack. Newt tossed a protein shake Aziraphale's way, and Crowley caught it from the air. Thank God, Aziraphale was a terrible catch, and somebody would have ended up with a broken nose if he'd tried. 

"How come there are three of you here?" Aziraphale questioned, looking between the lot of them. Up until now, they'd been strict on the number of guests he could have.

Anathema shrugged, primly peeling the paper from her muffin. "I've been working my magic on the receptionist." She explained sweetly, leaving it at that. How very mysterious.

Shaking, trembling mess that he was, he rolled into Doctor Loquacious' office. If he hadn't been pushed there by forces other than himself, he would never have made it. Struggling to get himself in order, he breathed in and out as best he could. He knew his fear wasn't rational, but it was still there, raising his shoulders around his ears and clenching a fist around his heart. He tried not to look like a shellshocked deer, but no doubt, failed miserably at it.

She wore a cross. It was the first thing he noticed when his attendant rolled him into her office. She stood up and walked from her chair over to the door, smiling a warm, concerned smile as she greeted him. Aziraphale nodded his greeting, but that cross dangling on her neck lingered in his head as he drew himself from the wheelchair and fumbled his way into a, frankly garish, orange couch. 

Couches, why did every head doctor insist on having them? Inconvenient things, he rather preferred a chair with solid arms for gripping. If he was less biased, he might have opted to stay in the wheelchair. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

"And how was the trip?" Doctor Loquacious asked as she settled into the chair across the way.

"Tiptop..." Aziraphale whispered. Sarcasm didn't suit him. Trying to take the sting off, he let corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly. Leaving the sickroom had felt like a dance with knives. He'd managed to reign himself in though, somewhere between his door and hers, not by much, but enough to sound intelligible. "Sorry, dear, I do not mean to snark," Aziraphale added, forcing himself to turn his eyes away from the cross. It was maybe a tad to close to her breasts for comfort, and he would hate to appear indecent. 

"Snark all you like, I wasn't sure you'd come, so that is a welcome surprise." Giving her credit, she did look surprisingly pleased to see him. "I can't help but see you've noticed my cross?" Doctor Loquacious asked, lifting a manicured hand to pull idly at the chain on her neck. Aziraphale winced and ducked his head. "Does it trouble you? I could put it away?"

"No, no, please don't. Forgive me, I'm just...well, your lot don't usually like interacting with mine." He explained shyly, blushing slowly. Why was he blushing? Dammit, he was used to most forms of bigotry by now. Chin up and all that, don't let them see they've hurt you. At least that's what Raphael used to say.

"Oh, I'm assuming you mean homosexual?" She asked. She collected her notebook from the side table and tapped lightly at it with her pencil as she leaned closer to him.

"Oh, well, yes. I suppose so. I used to go to Church you see, before well...before. But my beliefs and the Church's seem to have...taken separate paths, Doctor Loquacious," Biting the pad of his thumb, he glared at the orange suede of the couch cushions. Why did he bring this up? It was ludicrous. Was he looking to get in a religious fight today? With his therapist of all people?

"Ahh, I see. Well, I would say, then, that you just might have been going to the wrong Church." Aziraphale snorted at that, in full agreement, though he had yet to find a _right_ Church. Not that he'd looked in recent years. "And call me Mary. Everyone does." Mary beamed, dropping her necklace in favor of flipping to a page in her notebook.

"If you're ready, maybe we should start with your day. Do you remember what you did first thing this morning?"

Clearing his throat Aziraphale drew in a deep breath. He hated this bit, the questions, and digging in. Horrible really. And he'd be forced to do it every day, for the whole duration of his stay. Exhausting, is what it sounded like. The question was simple enough, though. Facts, he could do facts.

"I showered."

"Hmmm, before you got into the shower, what did you do?" 

"Woke up, the nurses helped me to the restroom." He scowled at that, giving the wheelchair in the corner a dirty look. 

Doctor Loquacious giggled, glancing towards the wheelchair. "Alright, so I'm gathering you don't like the wheelchair. Does having help bother you as well?"

God, yes, it did. He hated it. He'd survived the last five years and dragged himself up from a horrible spinal injury. He might be disabled, but he was self-reliant, he could take care of himself. He hated that his independence was being taken away from him.

He didn't say any of what was on his mind, though, instead just shrugging.

"Oh, those eyes of yours say this isn't a shrugging matter. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's on your mind?" She leaned her elbow on her knee, then settled her chin on her palm. Looking open and concerned. She was terribly good at her job.

Aziraphale sighed, and somehow, with some more prodding, managed not to be an emotionally constipated cucumber. 

"I've not fallen in years!" The frustrated words burst out of him. "I don't have nurses hovering all over me when I'm at home, I don't know why they insist on it now!"

Mary hummed and considered his words, mulling them over.

"Well, I can say that part of it is probably for insurance purposes. A fall here could result in years worth of headache if the patient needed to sue. Part of it is probably them just covering their own bottoms! I'm sure there are some professional fears tangled in there as well. No nurse wants to drop a patient, or have them become more injured than when they arrived. It's just their job. Is it easier for you if you think of it in those terms?" She asked, that pen ticking away on the edge of the notebook. She wasn't taking notes. He couldn't help but wonder why. 

Even so, she made a remarkable amount of sense. And it was a better point of view than what Aziraphale had. Which was that they all just thought him a silly old duck with the walking skills of a toddler.

"The other half, and I'm going to be blunt here. Is that up to now, you've made some choices that may call into question your ability to self-care." That stung, but he already knew that, didn't he? 

"Yes, yes, I know."

"Good, admitting you have a problem is a good first step."

"Oh, I have lots of problems. Admitting them is the least of it." He admitted, settling back into the couch. It was remarkably comfy.

So it went on, they talked, and when they finished their hour, Aziraphale felt lighter somehow. He hadn't realized how much of his current experience was bothering him. It wasn't just the tube feeding or the wheelchair, it was the lingering feeling that they'd never let him leave. The fear that he wouldn't be able to gain enough weight or that he was somehow failing everyone by not gaining it faster. It was the worries that he'd done something irreparable to himself, and the confusion on how it'd even happened in the first place.

It was all so terribly overwhelming.

Mary was wonderful. She calmly helped him think through it all and offered a tissue when it became too much, and he needed a small cry. He liked her. She was a peach. She didn't judge him, even when things became somewhat watery.

As he was leaving, she pressed a card into his hand. Looking down at it, he read the words. "St. Beryl Church".

"You're, of course, under no obligation to come. But...if you wanted to, our doors are always open." Aziraphale smiled, surprisingly thankful at the thought. Only one problem, though...

"I don't...get outside often." 

"Oh, we're very progressive. Service is recorded and provided online, live. A few of the ladies from the nursing department and I go. So if you ever got the hankering, there would be some familiar faces about."

"Ta." Aziraphale waved the business card around in thanks, as one had to do when receiving a business card. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, dear." Mary ushered him out. Somehow the prospect didn't seem as daunting as it had earlier.

On his twelfth day in hospital, Aziraphale was three and a one-third pounds heavier than the first. He'd been off the feeding tube for precisely four hours, and his blood-work had been taken that morning. He still wasn't happy with what the scale said, but apparently, that didn't matter. What his head wanted, and what his doctors needed, were utterly different. And according to the doctors, he was right on track. 

It was the twelfth day of his stay, and he was finally, finally going home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you feeling like a constipated cucumber today? Here's your dose of Crowley! Side effects include goofy smiles and giddiness.
> 
> Anyhoodle my little poodles, comments and kudos appreciated!


	8. Coming Home

Shakey and tired, Aziraphale stood, key in hand before the door of his flat. Once, twice, he missed the key in the lock. "Darn it. I'm sorry, dears, I'll get this open in a jiff. I'm just... a tad tired." 

Driving home had been awful. Thankfully Crowley had been there. Crowley's comforting voice had only improved the drive, and the loud trill of violins played over Anathema's car speakers. He'd held through, though, and finally, he was home. 

Well, almost home. If only he could get the lock in order. His fingers finally fiddled enough to get the key to the lock and knob to twist. Aziraphale heaved a sigh of relief as he managed to sweep the door open and step inside.

Coming home was a surprise. For all that he missed it so much, when he opened the door, it was like stepping back in time. Everything was as it should be. The same sun shining through the same window, the same air that smelled of books and home. Just the way he'd left it. If a little untidy and slightly more dusty than normal. Anathema had stopped by at some point, he knew that, but it seemed otherwise unchanged.

He wasn't sure why he'd anticipated it to be different. He just felt so changed inside. He supposed he wanted it reflected elsewhere. 

"Oh, thank God." Crowley groaned as he walked inside, his hands bearing armfuls of flowers, including the Tropic Snow he'd gifted Aziraphale on that first day. "I may have gone overboard with the gifts." 

Newt scoffed, following after with a bag hanging over one shoulder and some more cases tucked into the crook of his arm. "Be thankful he has a lift. I live on the fourth floor, no lift, soooo many stairs." He pouted, stepping around Crowley to place the various gifts on the countertops. The bag dropped to the floor with a thump. 

"Thank you both. You're stars, honestly." Aziraphale offered, turning to drag the door further open as Anathema strolled in airily. She had a handful of groceries, all of which she'd picked out for Aziraphale. None of which he'd chosen himself. Not that he would have even known where to begin. Pushing the door closed behind her, he paused to take a look at his friends. All three of them looked just as put out. Tired.

 _Tea might help?_ Hopefully, it would seep off some of the anxiety of the day. And how he had missed a good homebrew. The hospital tea had been horrible, watery junk. He'd made due, but there was nothing like a fresh cup of tea. Honestly, he didn't know how people coped without it. Snagging the kettle, he put it to boil, working around everyone with surprising ease. He wasn't sure how long the rest would be staying. Just in case he filled it to the brim.

"I bought more shakes and the usual assortment," Anathema explained as she squeezed past Crowley to get to the fridge. 

Crowley eyed the bags with a turned-up nose. "You consider that food? I'm going to have to show you what a real meal is Aziraphale. Alexa, remind me to make Aziraphale crepes." he turned to his smartwatch, chatting at it cheerfully.

"I want some crepes." Newt looked hopeful and then alarmed as he almost knocked over a vase from its spot on the counter.

"Hey!" Crowley snatched the vase from Newt's hands, tutting in exasperation. He turned and tucked it into the back corner of the kitchen counter, fluffing the rosemary and eucalyptus fronds. The scent they released cleansed the smell of dust from Aziraphale's nose. 

"I've had crepes before." Aziraphale protested to the lid of the kettle, pressing a palm to his lower back and squeezing the muscles there. His bones were an achy mess from hip to toe, his head a throbbing disaster. He was tired, and he probably looked it too, with the way his top was undone, exposing the white fabric of his undershirt. Even his bowtie was unraveled, a wrinkled bit of cloth hanging from his shoulders. 

Leaving hospital had been an exhausting barrage of blood work. Followed by one last meeting with Mary and then all the silly litigious paperwork. He'd been tired than, but after that was the even worse task of actually getting home. 

"You have never had my crepes, or you'd be more excited." Crowley crooned with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Wait, is crepes code for sex?" Newt asked, sounding slightly alarmed. All of them burst into giggles. Crowley glowing an attractive color of embarrassed. Apparently, Newt knew how to push all his buttons.

"Come on, Newt. Help me get the bedding in order? I'll show you where the laundry room is." Anathema dragged him away with a palm to the back of his neck, pulling him towards the back bedroom, which was probably a complete disaster. Aziraphale watched them go, bemused.

Once he'd realized he liked the younger man, Aziraphale had asked Newt if he would mind coming on as his assistant. He might be a silly beanstalk, but he was good at his job and had a kind heart. 

Anathema had apparently taken his hiring very seriously. She was hounding Newt about taking the appropriate certification courses and dragging him around teaching him about the ever so complicated world of Aziraphale Device. Something for which neither seemed to mind, judging by the lovesick puppy eyes Newt threw her way when she wasn't looking. 

Something was brewing there. Aziraphale could see it in the twinkling gleam of their shared looks. He wasn't a meddler, so he'd let it fly and see where it took them. 

There was a soft touch at his elbow, and Aziraphale turned away from the kettle, smiling as he looked up into Crowley's eyes.

"You alright?" Crowley asked, gracefully easing into Aziraphale's space, one arm tucking around Aziraphale's waist. The other dragged a long finger along his cheekbone, tucking overgrown curls behind Aziraphale's ears. "You look feral, with your hair like this. I like it."

Aziraphale leaned forward, pressing himself wholly against Crowley's frame. A warm lump of muscle, that's what he was. "I'm fine. It's just odd, finally coming home. It feels surreal." He explained, lifting his chin up to lean it on Crowley's shoulder. It felt nice, these little caresses, small intimate touches that didn't have to be sexual. "And I haven't bothered looking in a mirror of recent, so I'm afraid to see what you're talking about." Crowley's hand skimmed along his side and around it to press gently to the curve of his spine. Dexterous finger playing along the ridges of it. 

That was lovely. The sound Aziraphale made was close to indecent, the feel of those fingers even more so. The fact that Crowley had noticed his achy self was enough to make Aziraphale turn to blubber. Crowley chuckled, warm and rich, wrapping Aziraphale up tight in his arms so that he wouldn't sink to the floor.

"You're like a cat. You scruffy thing." Crowley pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. And Aziraphale marveled that somehow they'd progressed to this. Warm, comforting touches and just being comfortable with each other. He couldn't even recall the exact moment it happened. It just did. 

"And you're the sun. How are you always so warm?" Aziraphale buried his face against Crowley's chest, biting playfully at the collar of his shirt. 

The two others trooped back into the main room with their hands full of a basket each that interrupted them. "Where have you put the laundry room key at?" Anathema asked, raising an eyebrow and grinning so big she looked like an idiot. Why she found them so cute was beyond Aziraphale's comprehension.

"Oh, let me just-" Disentangling himself, he opened one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out a lanyard with the key attached. "You're going to use up the machines with all that." He reminded, raising his eyebrow as he handed it off. 

"Pfft, you've been gone long enough. You've earned hogging up the stations for a few hours." Anathema argued, snatching it out of his hands and heading off with a jerk of her chin towards Newt.

Aziraphale didn't quite know how to protest that, so instead, he just closed the drawer, jolting only a little when the front door slammed shut behind them. 

The kettle started to burble cheerily, calling Aziraphale back over with the promise of warmth. Aziraphale snagged a cup and got to work, making it. He didn't have the energy to take down the pot and make a proper batch. A tea bag in his mug would do for now. "Would you like some tea?" He asked Crowley, watching the liquid steep. The cup felt good in his hand, the smell of tea leaves heaven. 

"I'm alright," Crowley's furnace-like heat pressed up against his back, his stubbled chin scraping along the skin at the back of Aziraphale's neck. "I should probably leave you to get comfortable." Crowley's breath ghosted down his neck. Aziraphale sighed, leaning back into him and tilting his head to offer his neck for tender lips and warm butterfly kisses.

"I'm feeling pretty comfortable right now." Aziraphale mused, whimpering as those arms took him up again, slinking about his waist like bands, dragging his back up against Crowley's front so strong that Aziraphale didn't even need his crutch to stay upright. It clattered to the floor as Aziraphale reached back to tangled his finger in long auburn locks. 

His grip trembled around the cup, so he scrambled to place it on the counter. Crowley's lips laved over the column of his neck, warm and moist, sucking down the line of it until he found the spot he wanted. Crowley's tongue peeked out, tracing a damp line over the spot. The feel of it had his belly tensing.

"Anthony?" Aziraphale could only moan and cling to the countertop as Crowley busied himself palming at the fabric of his undershirt until nails scrapped low against the waistband of his trousers. 

"Hell, darling, how do you make my name sound so sexy?" Crowley moaned against his neck. He seemed to know what he was doing, and it didn't take long for him to delve lower and palm the swell of Aziraphale's slowly awakening sex through the fabric of his trousers. 

Oh! That was unexpected, pleasantly so. Aziraphale jolted, whimpering his approval as he was taken in hand. Crowley's lips swallowed his pulse, sucking in needy pulls against the flickering beat of it. Aziraphale relished the tight pressure of that wide palm as it rolled downward, squeezing with eager delight. 

This wasn't platonic. This was raw need, aching passion.

He was being taken over, by slow, eager desire, by black painted fingernails and the squeeze of a palm around him. Crowley groaned out his appreciation, his own hips rolling against the swell of Aziraphale's backside. Rocking in gentle sways. The sounds leaving Crowley's mouth as arousing as the squeezing pressure of his hand.

He could feel the skin of his neck tightening, drawing up with raised blood. Crowley marking him, claiming him. There was no doubt he'd have a love bite after. Crowley pulled away with a soft groan, leaving Aziraphale feeling bereft and needy, clinging to the countertop to stop himself from toppling over. 

"Shite, fuck," Crowley croaked, voice cracking from pent up hunger. "I'm sorry, love, didn't mean to take it that far." Crowley supported him until he was steady, pressing a final kiss to Aziraphale's shoulder before bending down to pick up Aziraphale's crutch. 

Aziraphale accepted it with as much grace as he could offer, laughing breathlessly beside the counter. "You're a tease, dearest." Aziraphale managed to get out, righting his clothes and the swell of himself in his pants before turning to look Crowley over. 

The other man stood pressed up against the other side of the counter, pupils blown wide, eyes eager and needy but also cautious. His jeans were tented at the hip, his arousal evident.

"I know," he groaned, rubbing a palm over his face. "I really didn't mean too. You're just so....you." 

"Should I take that as a compliment?" Aziraphale kidded, standing up on almost tiptoe to press a kiss to Crowley's chin. He wobbled terribly, and Crowley helped him out by dropping the rest of the way so they could kiss lips to lips. Soft, sweet skin, parted with slowly reigned in breaths and dwindling excitement. Aziraphale felt it too. 

He was still aching in his trousers.

"God, yes, you're irresistible. But really, this is your first day home. You're still sick. It's rude."

Aziraphale pouted, he wanted to be frustrated, but truth be told, he was already feeling tired. And he was still somewhat overwhelmed with being home. There was some adjusting to make, and, as always, Crowley was right. The brat.

"How are you always so darn pragmatic?" Aziraphale asked. He sounded put out, but who wouldn't be? It'd just been so long, and Crowley drove his libido crazy. He was like sex in converse. Even his being chivalrous and holding back was attractive! 

"Practice, Parsnip," Crowley said cheekily, rubbing a thumb across the swell of Aziraphale's jaw. "Come on. You look tired. Want to watch something on the telly until your blankets are ready?" 

Aziraphale eyed the couch. It looked woefully comfortable. "That's sounds lovely." He admitted, collecting his mug. "Should I get together something to eat?" Aziraphale asked, eyeing the fridge. It was nearing dinner time, and he knew he should be thinking about such things now.

"I saw some deli meats, how about a sandwich?" Crowley prowled to the fridge and dived inside. "You go ahead and find us something. I'll get the goodies." 

They settled in to watch some meaningless drivel, Aziraphale curling into his customary position on the couch corner, pillowed up by a cushion or two. Crowley ended up sprawled across the rest of the couch, his bare feet dangling off the arm, his head pillowed on the swell of Aziraphale's thigh. 

Together they shared a sandwich, Crowley taking a bite before lifting the monstrosity to offer Aziraphale one. This being his first meal outside of slop and jello, Aziraphale rivaled in the taste of it, moaning happily. They did that until the meal was down to nothing but a bit of crumbs on Crowley's shirt, and Aziraphale's belly felt full.

Content to do nothing else, the two of them settled down for a bit of a sit-in. Crowley sighed happily, kicking his feet as he watched whatever action was playing out on the television. 

Aziraphale was pleased just to watch him. The way his hair looked sprawled across Aziraphale's lap was a thing of beauty. He couldn't resist the desire to run his fingers through the rich locks, and most of his time was spent absorbed in watching Crowley.

Crowley was the first to fall asleep, his vibrant eyes flickering closed during a particularly dull commercial, his overactive feet twitching to a stop as sleep overcame him. Aziraphale watched it happen, marveling at the feeling that bloomed in his chest. He didn't want to give it a name, that warm happiness taking up residence inside his heart, but it was there nonetheless.

Aziraphale didn't last long after that. He woke up again only at the soft creaking noise of the front door opening. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he managed to turn in time to see Anathema and Newt sneak back in with the laundry.

Both looked far more rumpled than they had before leaving. Newt's hair was tousled in disarray. The blush on his cheeks only just rivaled the stain of lipstick across his mouth. Anathema caught him looking, and the smirk on her cheeks said plenty. Aziraphale barely withheld his delight and only just managed not to embarrass both of them. 

Carefully he disentangled himself from under Crowley. The other man slept through it. His only reaction a soft mumble as he stretched out across the couch and turned to bury his face into the beige fabric. He looked too comfortable. Aziraphale would hate to wake him. 

A blanket would help. Picking up a fuzzy wool monstrosity, he draped it across Crowley's long limbs. There, wasn't that a sight. 

In his bedroom Anathema and Newt were having a go at resetting his sheets, tucking to the corners with ease.

"Thank you both."

"No problems. Did you eat anything?" Anathema asked. 

"Yes, don't mother me, Anathema." Aziraphale flinched. He didn't like being questioned like a child. It wasn't that he didn't understand why someone would ask him that, given the situation he had just come out of. It was just that, for the most part, he'd been doing pretty well. It wasn't fun, being considered incompetent. 

"Good, I just worry about you, love." She seemed to realize she'd misstepped, at least, "Alright, we should go. You look exhausted."

Aziraphale nodded, showing them out. After that, it was all he could do to shower the rest of the hospital stench off and get into bed. By the time he pulled his covers around himself, he'd entirely forgotten about the beautiful gardener asleep in his sitting room.

Aziraphale woke up slowly on the morning of his first day home. Groaning into the sheets, he thought he might just settle in for a longer sleep, maybe relax the day away. But his bladder was calling to the restroom, very aggressively, and Aziraphale was but a servant to its will. 

Blinking his eyes open, he let out a shriek and jolted back against the pillows, heart slamming in his chest.

"Good, your awake!" Crowley's grinning face peered down at him, this wicked lips twisted into an evil little line of mischief. 

Despite the smile, his cheeks were red. He'd been caught peeking red-handed, watching Aziraphale sleep, the little sneak. Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to be upset about it. Something about the almost apologetic tilt to his lips made whatever this was not so creepy. Other things, though...

"Crowley! You brat. You've nearly made me pee myself!" Aziraphale croaked, shoving at the stiff muscles of Crowley's chest and laughing outright when the other man just crumbled on top of him, burying his face to Aziraphale's neck. Somehow he managed to both hold Aziraphale down and not strain his back in the slightest.

"This is doing nothing good for my bladder..." Aziraphale groaned, wrapping his arms around the other man and inhaling the hot scent of his cologne. It was stale and faded but filled his sinuses with Crowley.

"Humph..." Crowley answered, sounding nothing if not content.

"And what are you doing snooping around in my room?" Aziraphale questioned, against the lobe of Crowley's ear, his nose delving along the shell of it.

"I woke up this morning to find myself abandoned on your couch. So I decided I should make us breakfast." Crowley explained, his long fingers delving under Aziraphale's covers to paw at Aziraphale's bare chest. Oh, that was different, hot calloused hands scraping down his ribs, counting each one with a wiggle of his fingers. 

God, he had to pee...

"How is _this_ breakfast?" Aziraphale asked, chuckling under his breath.

"Well, I wanted to wake you up but got distracted by the view," Crowley admitted, his cheeks hot pinpricks on Aziraphale's shoulder. "Besides, you have to admit. It's very tempting." His voice dropped an octave, into this sultry, suggestive growl.

Aziraphale groaned. How could his bladder be making a statement at this very moment? 

"Tempting indeed, but if you don't move, I will pee on you," Aziraphale warned, laughing outright when Crowley jerked back, looking very offended indeed. 

"Angel, you have wounded me," Crowley whined, flailing his hands dismissively. "Fine, go. I know where your priorities are." He shoved off the bed, slinking in for one more quick peck before leaving Aziraphale to it. Flouncing from the room in his rumpled clothes like he was the Queen herself.

There was something nice in the way he just left Aziraphale to it, not offering help or assistance. Aziraphale got in and out of this bed twice a day, if not more, but no matter what, most people, Anathema being the main one, seemed to think he'd need the help. Not today. Today he was free of nurses and good-doers.

Thank heavens, he was left with some of his dignity intact as he worked his achy self across the bed like a topsy turtle. It was the little things, like not looking a dolt in front of his love interest, that was starting to appreciate. 

Digging his red painted toes into the soft carpet, he wriggled them about and resolved to get to his feet. Hissing, he straightened ankles and knees and heaved himself off the bed. For as skinny as he was, his spine seemed to think he weighed a ton. Crutch in hand, he followed his bladder's urgent call.

He relished his time, maybe he spent a little too long diddling about, but up until yesterday, he'd been on a gurney with a tube in his nose and a nurse at his side. There was something wonderful about just being alone and managing things all on his own.

He was proud to say he managed to relieve himself and give his face a wash. With great gusto, he scrubbed his teeth to a sparkling shine and even ran a brush through his tangles. The icy water splashing against his face waking him up enough so that, when he did exit his bedroom, it was on steadier feet. Shrugging on a shirt was the final thing he needed. 

Feeling somewhat presentable, he opened his bedroom door the rest of the way and peeked out at his guest.

Crowley. The morning sun shining onto him from the window made the taller man into a thing of poetry. Back arched over the stovetop. The green cotton of his shirt straining over his shoulders. He was humming cheerily under his breath. Some familiar tune that tickled at Aziraphale's memory, but for which he could not place the words.

Aziraphale couldn't help but imagine what it'd be like to wake up every morning to something like this. Not that he knew exactly where he and Crowley were headed as a couple, but it was always a pleasant thing to think of. That growing potential, the hesitant newness of developing interests. 

He could feel it in the way his eyes lingered on the curls of untamed hair and even the twitching flutter of fingers brushing over a pot handle. When Crowley looked up at the sound of his crutch hitting the tile floor, he thought he saw something similar light up the depths of those sunflower eyes. He had the thought that maybe this was what falling in love felt like. What a bad idea for his poor heart. 

Men like him didn't get to love gods like Crowley, did they?

As soon as Aziraphale stepped out of the room, Crowley was on him. 

"Oh good, come on, you sleepy duck. I've got breakfast on hold." Crowley announced, taking Aziraphale's hand and hauling him towards the kitchen. His fingers lingered on Aziraphale's wrist as he showed him the mess he'd created with a flourish.

"Tada!"

Aziraphale giggled, looking it over with no small amount of dismay. "And what is this?" He asked, leaning over to peak into a pot. The warm scent of cinnamon and ginger tickled his nose. Inside were what looked like peaches.

"It's crepes, of course!" Crowley's head jerked back on his long neck, and he looked oh so offended that Aziraphale hadn't come to that conclusion on his own.

"Of course, silly me." Aziraphale offered, "Where did all this come from? I don't own half this stuff." Aziraphale asked, picking up a measuring cup that he was confident had not existed in his kitchen before today.

"I grabbed what I could from my flat. The peaches are yours. I'm sorry, Aziraphale, but your kitchen needs help. You don't even have vanilla!" Crowley looked indignant, the very idea seemingly horrifying. Aziraphale giggled, ducking his head and shrugging. 

"It smells delectable," Aziraphale said, breathing deep, his stomach giving a surprising gurgle of interest.

"It should," Crowley drawled, looking a little less offended and preening from the praise.

"Oh, stop it, you! Come here, I want a proper good morning."

"Mmm....fine, but we have to hurry. I have an appointment with some soil at eight." Crowley let Aziraphale draw him in, and Aziraphale sighed as he was enveloped in a warm hug and provided one in return. Like slipping under feathered wings, he felt sheltered and content in Crowley's arms. They were all-encompassing, his larger frame smothering Aziraphale's. Even the thought of Crowley leaving couldn't diminish the moment. 

"Should I be jealous of the soil?" Aziraphale asked. Shyly, he shifted his fingers along the hem of Crowley's shirt until he felt the skin of Crowley's belly under his fingertip, flinching and warm. He wouldn't usually be so forward, but Crowley hadn't seemed opposed to the physical earlier, and Aziraphale's touch seemed to do nothing more than elicit a soft secret smile and a delightful crinkle of smile lines along Crowley's eyes.

"Oh hardly, though there's a date right after with some pond scum. That you might be concerned with." Crowley admitted. Silly man. His skin was warm from the heat of the oven and jumped under Aziraphale's hand as he let it roam up higher. Playing along the soft planes of muscle.

"Pond Scum? That trollop." Aziraphale tugged Crowley downward to whispered against warm lips. "You'll tell it to keep its hands to itself, I trust?"

"You _are_ much warmer," Crowley admitted, his free hand dropping to stop Aziraphale's wandering hand in its tracks, pressing Aziraphale's palm against the concave just below his ribcage. "And, you _do_ smell better." He teased, the press of his lips to Aziraphale's sending skittering little shocks down to his toes. They lingered there for a moment, looking each other in the eyes— blue to gold. 

"It's almost eight. Do we have time?" He reminded, moving to lean against the counter.

"We do if we eat here," Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale stared at him, raising an eyebrow and shaking his head. "Alright. Not the worst idea I've heard."

"Not with that attitude. Hmm, come here. I'll set you on the countertop," Crowley shoved a bag of the flour out of the way and reached for Aziraphale's waist. 

"Don't be silly." Aziraphale gave him an indignant look. 

"I'm not! You can't weigh more than a bag of mulch, and if you hop on up, we can eat together." Crowley gave him wide doe eyes, and Aziraphale caved because apparently, the man could get away with anything. 

"Fine, but if it doesn't work, don't blame it on me!" Aziraphale held out his arms and jumped as broad hands took over the expanse of his ribcage. Crowley lifted him up off the floor with a ridiculous amount of ease and settled him onto the countertop.

Aziraphale clutched the edge, settling down comfortably on the icy marble. "Oh, dear." He croaked, looking around in mild surprise. He wasn't sure when he'd last been on something that wasn't at ground level. At this height, he was level with Crowley, their noses brushing as Crowley eased back. 

"Is that alright?" Crowley asked, his eyes searching Aziraphale's for hints of pain, his smile lopsided and giddy. Surprisingly enough, Aziraphale felt very comfortable indeed. His back might hate him for it later, but for now...this was perfect.

"Yes, I think so," Aziraphale admitted, patting his thighs and smiling back.

"Good. I'm fuckin' starving." Crowley dragged the plate of crepes to Aziraphale's side and followed that up with a small bowl of clotted cream and the pot of cooked peaches. Humming to himself, the taller man pressed in close until his hips parted Azirpahle's legs. Aziraphale found himself with Crowley settled in between the swell of his thighs, which wasn't a bad place for him to be. 

Aziraphale watched as his long fingers worked at the soft roll of a crepe, wrapping it around a slide of peach and a pad of cream. " I can't believe you've made all this. It's unreasonably early."

"It's half-past seven, love. The sun has been out for at least two hours." Crowley chided, taking a bite so that his words came out muffled midway through. 

"Mmm...sounds like gardener talk for too damn early." Aziraphale teased, rolling his eyes. Following Crowley's cue, he made himself one too and dived in. The first bite was like liquid sex. Warm and sweet and sultry on his tongue. He hummed happily as a bright burst of cinnamon and ginger lit upon his tongue followed. It was honestly the best thing he'd eaten in a long time. The peaches...oh god, the peaches. Heaven.

"How are you not a cook. This is amazing. I need to bottle these." Aziraphale whimpered, pointing to the still-warm pan of fruit. Looking up from his sticky fingers, he caught the look of pure delight on Crowley's face. 

"That good, huh?" Crowley asked, reaching out to whip off a smudge of cream from Aziraphale's nose. "Your poor nose is trying to save some for later." 

"Oops...I'm a mess." Aziraphale admitted, wiping at his mouth with his own hands to make sure he hadn't missed any.

"Hardly, now this-" Crowley dipped a spoon full of peaches into the hollow of Aziraphale's mouth, spilling its contents onto Aziraphale's tongue. His mouth overflowed, juice dribbling down his chin. "Is a mess." He grinned.

"Oh! Anthony!" Aziraphale scowled as sugar dripped down his chin, looking for a napkin. None seemed to be found.

"Come here." Crowley reached out, pressing his thumb to Aziraphale's chin to catch the excess liquid. He rubbed it clean, bringing his thumb up for Aziraphale to lick. Aziraphale didn't have to think twice before taking the warm digit into his mouth. Crowley hummed his approval, eyes hooded with held back desires. Popping his thumb free, he rubbed it gently along the seam of Aziraphale's lips before pulling away. 

"For someone who doesn't eat much, you know how to enjoy your food." Crowley teased, popping the last bite of crepe into his mouth before moving to make another. 

They continued like that until they were both content and full. Like children, they ate right there in the kitchen: no plates or napkins, just finger, and tongues, and the occasional spoon. Until neither one remembered the time, and the next thing they knew, Crowley's phone was ringing.

"Oh, fuck!" Crowley groaned, starring down at the time on his cell and groaning in frustration. "I'm late. I have to go." Crowley gave an apologetic wince, glancing about at the mess he'd made. 

"Don't worry. I've got this end of things. I'll see you later." Aziraphale offered him a final bite and watched, bemused, as Crowley answered his phone, hurriedly rushing away. 

From the partially closed door, Aziraphale caught the sound of cursing. 

"Sorry, John, give me a minute." Rushing back inside, Crowley offered an apologetic smile and a softly whispered, "Sorry." 

Aziraphale giggled under his breath as the other man helped him down from the counter, the front of his chest sliding down Crowley's until his feet his the floor. Crowley offered him one final peck on the cheek before he was gone, a whirlwind of red hair and rumbled clothes.

"Thank you, darling." He called after Crowley's retreating back, shaking his head and turning back to the mess at hand. "Where to began?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ugh, this chapter took me a while to get out, mostly because my brain wanted to write every other chapter instead of this one. Which is a good thing, because I almost have this story complete! So! I finally have it here for you. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I have the next chapter ready for posting, should I post it early to make up for the delay? I dunno!
> 
> Comments are much appreciated, kudos are as well!


	9. Duck, Duck, Goose

It took Crowley two days to clear the garden pond. The first day was spent, from what Aziraphale could see from his flat window, primarily arguing with said pond about its inability to stay clean. It also had highlights, which included Crowley stripping off his converse and flashing peach-toned toes, as well as a charming view of his backside as he bent to rearrange the rocks. 

The second day Aziraphale woke up early to a warm cup of cocoa and an alarm reminding him to eat.

He'd talked at length with Mary about the fact that he just could never find the energy to cook. She'd urged him that anything was better than nothing. That even if he didn't want to eat, a protein shake was possibly the best solution.

"Let's not make food a chore for you. If you don't want to cook, don't cook. But the end solution is, you still should have something. So! Keep your shakes on hand. Those can be your go-to meals. And with that, maybe you should get an appointment with a nutritionist. They will better be able to address your concerns. We want to keep you healthy this time." She had scolded lightly.

Aziraphale had an appointment with the nutritionist sometime in the next two weeks. Until then, he'd just keep to it the best he could. Today the 'best he could' involved toast with an excessive amount of butter and one egg cooked to his liking. He felt oddly proud of that small accomplishment as he settled in the chair beside the window table to look out upon his favorite view. 

Yellow daffodils and purple irises aside, the true thing he was looking for happened to be just beyond his window, laboring at the pond. 

Aziraphale watched from on high as Crowley drudged up buckets of ick. It looked like back-breaking work, his biceps flexing under the sleeves of his long shirt. It was colder than it had been that week, with the sun hidden behind a wall of clouds and a chill lingering in the air well into the afternoon. It didn't seem to be making his job any easier.

Settling down with his cup of cocoa, he reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the messy-haired gardener. He opened up his computer to delve into the strenuous activity of checking his email. It was flooded with dozens of messages. Most of which were junk or having much to do about birding and the various committees he was a part of. The shinning apple of the lot was an award letter, stating that they'd been given their grant for the coming year's studies.

They'd been awarded enough funds to pay for the next several year's worth of research. Aziraphale could have danced upon seeing that, but he wasn't a good dancer at the best of times. Instead, he marked it so he would remember to respond and scrolled his way downward. He was content duck with that news, grinning cheerily at his computer screen as he made his way through the rest of the emails. 

Only twelve were of a personal nature, and all of them were from one Sergeant Shadwell. The first five were perfunctory. The last six built up rapidly into worry, with number nine asking about his mental well-being and number ten requesting a death certificate. It was then that Anathema seemed to have righted the issue and no doubt sent him an update on Aziraphale's status.

Number twelve was an abrupt and well-worded message.

> _I hear you're alive. It's too bad. Posthumous works get more attention than the drivel we're making now._

Aziraphale snorted into his cup at that, shaking his head. Leave it up to the old goat to see the upside. His response read something like: 

> **_That's dark, even for you. If you must know, we got the grant, so stop fussing. You won't have to kill me to tromp about in the Russian wilderness for at least another two years._ **

There, that should cheer the chap up. Shadwell would be pleased as pie to find out they'd won the grant. A month's worth of hard work had gone into their proposal.

Business done, Aziraphale leaned back in his chair and looked out over his home. The same red walls that had been there since he'd moved in greeted him. The green carpet beneath his feet was still soft and comfortable, but it started to look a tad bit worn around the edges. The same books and photographs as always, some second-hand furniture that he had since Raphael's father had given it to them. 

It looked like a window to the past. His home a mausoleum of a life he'd once and never let go of. He hadn't added a new photo in years, other than Crowley's nightingale picture, which had pride of place on his fridge until the frame he'd ordered came in. Considering it now, all Aziraphale could think was that it looked ever so sad. 

"Blue is a lovely color..."

A restyle was in order. Aziraphale smiled into his cup, sipping on the warm liquid before turning back to his laptop.

Some rigorous digging proved to point out that hiring a painter was well outside his budget and, besides that, most certainly too much social interaction for his frazzled self. He watched a dozen videos of men tromping about houses, touching things, and shifting about stuff willy-nilly without care. No, no, thank you. He couldn't do it. The idea of strangers working in his home had him stumbling to the medicine cabinet and swallowing down a tablet or two.

Once he'd calmed down enough, Aziraphale decided maybe the best route would be to ask for a bit of volunteer work. Maybe Crowley and Newt wouldn't mind. That was a beast all its own; he'd never had anyone to ask help from before. Was it too soon? Would they think he was just a silly old loon who couldn't do a thing on his own?

Dammit, maybe he should just hold off until his finances were in order? That still left the bit about having strangers in his home, but at least he would have some pride intact.

But he honestly could use a change of color.

In the end, he need not have worried. Newt was more than happy to assist. "No problem, Ezra. Isn't that why you hired me?" He answered Aziraphales with a slurp of what sound like noodles and the huffing gasp of too hot food. "I can help in the mornings. If that's okay? My computer course is at two." 

Aziraphale was pleased enough with that answer. He offered his thanks and hung up. 

He didn't bother calling Anathema. She was busy most days and wasn't the hands-on type. Besides, he had a feeling she'd just snicker the whole time and drink up all his tea.

Crowley was a whole other beast. A lovely, beautiful creature that Aziraphale couldn't help but worry would grow tired of him very soon. He knew it was mostly his anxiety talking, but he couldn't help but think that this one thing might be the last straw. But Crowley, kind, gentle Crowley. He wasn't like that. Maybe he'd say no, but he probably wouldn't get angry over it. 

"Right, best get on it." He didn't think he'd lose his nerve, but his mind was fickle, so these things were best done at a spur of the moment. He couldn't bring himself to call the man. He was no doubt busy with whatever he was doing to the poor pond, but he did manage to get a small tidbit out through text **.**

> **_Should you so desire. I'm having a small painting to-do and would love you to attend._ **

There, that sounded pleasant and not demanding or desperate. Looking up, he could just see Crowley drop his net to fish into his pocket. His smile as he looked down at the phone was...stunning, secret and warm and not annoyed at all.

> _Should I wear my ballgown? Is there a formal invitation to the dance?_
> 
> _**Oh dear, to formal?** _
> 
> _Now I'm just worried about what I'm going to wear._

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, laughing under his breath.

> **_Is that a yes?_ **
> 
> _That's hell yes! Wouldn't miss it. Is this just an excuse to check out my painting muscles?_
> 
> **_I'm getting an eyeful of your pond cleaning muscles right now_ **

Crowley looked up, covering his eyes to better look up at Aziraphale's window. He waved when he caught sight of Aziraphale sitting beside his laptop, then stretched slowly, the wiry muscles of his arms straining the seams of his shirt. 

"Oh, dear." Aziraphale ducked his head. Oh, dear indeed.

Crowley continued well into the afternoon. Aziraphale couldn't spend his whole time watching the other man, but he did manage to find himself idly staring out the window between chores and getting himself back in order.

Aziraphale spotted him chasing the ducks back at one point, shaking his head as he watched gangly limbs flailing. Distance again proved that, from far away, Crowley lost most of his elegance. He became that handsome beanstalk of a man who looked like he might fall splat on his face at any moment. How his hips could move so opposite from the rest of his body was astounding.

"Back you! Those are chemicals, no, no!" Crowley's curses echoed through the courtyard, making their way in through Aziraphale's open window. He roared into the spring breeze, his deep voice high with worry: poor ducks, poor Crowley. Silly things. 

Leaning out the window, Aziraphale laughed aloud as the ducks turned on Crowley and started to chase him back the way he came.

"Anthony! You ridiculous loon. Leave the poor ducks alone!" He shouted down into the open air.

Crowley spun. His hair, tied up as it was like spun sugar on top of his head, bounced in the wind. Little stray locks blew across his face so that he had to shove it out of the way to look up at Aziraphale's. 

"Oy! You!" The grin that exploded across his cheeks was something marvelous to behold. Just as bright as the daffodils and wholly more beautiful than the whole garden combined. "You're just standing there watching me get mauled by ducks?!" He shouted, yelping as one exceptionally strong-willed goose caught up and nipped him in the shin.

"Love, that's not a duck, that's Greylag Goose! They are very aggressive!" Aziraphale doubled over, laughing as Crowley let out a very feminine shriek and dashed away from a jab at his neither regions. "Oh, dear! Don't let her get that bit!"

"Aziraphale! HELP!" Crowley called, stumbling over his shoes and running back in the direction of the pond.

"What can I do?!" Aziraphale choked out, wiping tears from his eyes. His phone oh, heavens, this would be fantastic to film. Snatching it up from the table, he pressed record. 

"Here goose! Here goose!" He called, not that he thought it would help.

"Are you filming me?! You're no help-"

With a screech, Crowley's ankle twisted and, with an even louder shriek, he fell backward into the pond. Aziraphale yelped in response and almost dropped his phone out the window. 

"Crowley?!" Struggling to his feet, Aziraphale called out into the open air, relief flooding him when the poor man emerged from the depths of the pond, coughing and sputtering. "I'll be right down!"

Spinning around, he sought out and found his crutch, then hurried to the linen closet, grabbing the most massive towel he owned. Laughter of the moment aside, that had looked like a horrible tumble. 

"Come along, you dolt, he's fine, just a tumble." Aziraphale scolded himself, launching himself out the door with all the speed he had. Which wasn't much, but he thought he'd put in a valiant effort. 

By the time he made it out of the elevator and across the foyer, Crowley was already being swarmed by a group of well-meaning citizens. At the head of it was Aziraphale's neighbor from across the way. Gabriel, a well-meaning twat who'd rubbed Aziraphale the wrong way often enough that the mere sight of him was distressing.

The goose was mysteriously absent, the dastardly things job well done. Aziraphale stumbled to a halt by the front doors, watching with a pinched brow as Crowley limped towards the complex, his right foot near collapsing as he gingerly tried to set weight on it. His wet arms were soaking into Gabriel's suit.

Everything in Aziraphale longed to step out the door, to launch himself across the threshold and see how Crowley was doing for himself. To push Gabriel aside and offer his shoulder to lean on. An odd notion since he could barely keep himself upright. Yet he couldn't. Even the thought of his feet hitting the pavement had his ears ringing.

Instead, he forced himself to back up, shaking out his towel and waiting for the moment Crowley squelched onto the marble floor. He was soaking wet, scalp to hoof. His hair was plastered to his skull, and he looked like he'd managed to clear out half the scum off the pond with his body alone. Drapes of moss and ick hung from his hair and clung to his shirt. The chilly air was already giving him a bad case of the shivers.

Crowley's cursing announced his entrance. "Fuckin' goose, I'll strangle it with its own wings!" He hissed to his audience. His chattering teeth made him sound barely intelligible. 

Upon seeing Aziraphale, the corner of his lips attempted to lift in a reassuring smile. Aziraphale could appreciate the effort, but it was more of a grimace than anything. Aziraphale moved to help, reaching out to offer the towel in his arms.

"Are you alrig-"

"Excuse us. We have an injured man here!" Gabriel interrupted, casting a glower of contempt toward Aziraphale before pushing Aziraphale aside to clear the way. 

Aziraphale stumbled, righting himself and huffing indignantly. Gabriel's actions were rude but possibly understandable, given the situation. 

Crowley thought otherwise. "Oy! That's my boyfriend! You fuckin' muppet!" He yelled, slapping the back of Gabriel's head with his soggy sleeve and then proceeding to do so to the whole lot of them. "Shove off, the lot of you! It's not a bloody broken bone. I'm fine." 

Aziraphale watched with his usual prim properness. Inside he was melting. Full-on melting into a pool of butter. He could feel his cheeks flaming, his heart atwitter with surprise. _Boyfriend?...Boyfriend!_ Had he heard right? Had Crowley just called him his boyfriend?

"Come on, Angel, I want out of here." Crowley's aggressive snarling broke his thoughts. Blinking out of his own stunned noggin, he stepped between Crowley just in time to stop him from sopping up another victim.

"So sorry, he gets like this when in pain." He explained, his voice high with shock. Seeing the damp streak across Gabriel's usually perfect hair was enough to kick him into gear. For his part, Gabriel looked utterly disgusted at the idea of another man having a 'boyfriend.'

"I'm not in pain." Crowley snapped, baring his teeth like a wild thing.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Someone else asked, looking between Gabriel and Crowley with open alarm. Aziraphale shook his head, thanking everyone before there were more casualties of Crowley's wrath. Gabriel glowered but trounced away, otherwise uninjured.

"I'm not in pain." Crowley repeat, taking Aziraphale's towel to wipe at his face. His eyeliner was running. "Those dingbats were fucking rude is what it is." He promptly disproved himself by attempting to walk only to have his leg almost collapse under his weight. Crowley paled considerably, lips thinning into a narrow line.

"Well, thank you for defending me," Aziraphale soothed and did the only thing he could think of, offering his shoulder to give Crowley something to lean on.

"Thanks." Crowley limped closer, and to Aziraphale's surprise, actually took the offer, leaning carefully on his shoulder. Aziraphale blushed, chest puffing with giddy pride at actually being useful. 

"Here, you're dripping everywhere." Aziraphale offered the towel so Crowley could wrap it over his shoulders and carefully assisted Crowley towards his flat. They took it slow, neither one at peak performance. It was a good thing Crowley was on the ground floor, considering the hissing sounds of pain that slipped from his lips. 

"Alright, we're almost there." Aziraphale urged, twisting the knob and sighing with relief when it proved to be unlocked. "You might want to take a shower. You smell like fish."

Crowley groaned, "Don't remind me, I inhaled that shite. Probably have fish eggs in my sinuses." 

Aziraphale giggled.

"Don't laugh! You're the one who was recording it!"

"I'm sorry, I'll stop, but your face was quite spectacular. And I do think I managed to get most of it," Aziraphale snorted, reigning in his laughter so he could get Crowley off his feet.

Crowley was openly grinning now, and he shook his head, letting go of Aziraphale to transfer his weight onto the wall.

"Glad to entertain. God, I really do smell. " Lifting his arm Crowley wrangled his smartwatch off his wrist and tossed it in the catchall dish. "It's a good thing that's waterproof. I'm going to take a shower real quick."

"Do you need help?" The offer was out of Aziraphale's mouth before he had a chance to think about what it implied. Blushing to his ears, he ducked his head down. Oh lord, why did he say that? The idea of seeing Crowley naked was one thing, actually doing it? He wasn't so sure.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, his eyes searching every inch of Aziraphale's and seemingly reading him like an open book. Wiping his hair with the towel, which was rapidly turning green, he shook his head.

"Nah, I'll make it fine on my own." 

"Oh, alright. I'll just...get you an ice pack." Aziraphale had never felt so relieved. It wasn't that he was uninterested, to the contrary. The idea of seeing Crowley nude was quite tantalizing. Maybe a little too much.

"Thanks, Parsnip." Crowley reached out and scrubbed his fingers through Aziraphale's hair, scruffing it playfully. "I've got a couple in the freezer."

"Right-o," Aziraphale waved him off. Crowley was halfway to the door before he turned. The blush blossoming on his cheeks told Aziraphale that he'd just realized exactly what he said out in the hallway.

"Fuck...Aziraphale, I called you my boyfriend." Crowley groaned, his face horrified.

"Yeah, you did. Don't worry about it." Aziraphale fought his own overactive heart, ducking his head and laughing nervously.

"That's probably something we should discuss... I'm such an arse." The guilt, Crowley's fingers dug into his sopping wet hair, twisting the towel in its strands. "And I said it in front of everyone. Shite!" That was hardly a problem. It probably could have been if he were younger, but Aziraphale had been out for decades. He might not flash it about like Crowley, but he was comfortable enough in his own skin. 

"Crowley, we've kissed in public before. That's hardly an issue. I just..." Taking a deep breath, he fortified his beating heart. "If that's how you think of us?" Aziraphale leaned onto his cane, cocking his head and looking up into those warm eyes, hoping the answer was yes. Hoping he didn't look too eager or needy. Reaching out he brushed his fingers along Crowley's cheek, wiping some stray duckweed from his cheeks.

"God, yes." Crowley shut his eyes, leaning into his touch. His skin damp and sticky under Aziraphale's skin.

"Then go take a shower and stop thinking so much." Aziraphale teased, and they both grinned, big, cheerful shows of teeth, something rich and warm glowing between the two of them. Finally, Crowley gave in and turned away. Leaning heavily on the wall, Crowley managed to make it to his bedroom and disappeared within its mysterious depths. A moment later, Aziraphale heard the sound of the showers pipes banging into submission and then the sound of water on tile, followed by more cursing.

Aziraphale floated through the motions of finding the mop and managed to give the floor a cursory wipe down to rid it of the slimy trail they'd brought inside. The custodian would have a tough time cleaning the foyer, but it was a bit beyond Aziraphale's capabilities to go beyond Crowley's apartment. It was damned difficult to mop one-handed, and half the time, he found himself just using the mop as an additional crutch. 

"Oh, I'm trash at this." He informed the mop.

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

The sound was soft at first, then gradually turned into this obnoxious loud beast, ratcheting around the sitting room angrily. Looking around, Aziraphale traced its origins to the table, where Crowley's watch flashed cheerfully. 

"Crowley? Your watch is shouting at me!" Walking towards the sound, he could just make out the letters that scrawled across the face of it.

> _'Take your meds you berk!'_

Aziraphale stared at the words, considering their meaning as he looked between Crowley's watch and the bedroom. _What meds?_ It occurred to him a second later that he was being terribly prying and particularly meddlesome.

"Ah!? Thanks, got it! It'll shut up in a minute."

Flinching, Aziraphale gave it one more glance before hurrying over to the kitchen. 

B"Alright." Aziraphale forced himself to ignore the beeping, instead, he opened the freezer box and searchdc its contents until he found a cold compress. Setting it down, his eyes landed on an open bottle of wine sitting on the counter.

The shower shut off.

After the day Crowley had, he could no doubt use something to calm his nerves. Feeling maybe a little bit daring, he helped himself to a wine glass and poured them a drink to share.

"Aziraphale, do you mind bringing that ice pack in here? I've sat down, and my will to move is nonexistent."

"Be right there!" Pocketing the ice pack, it made a chilly companion against his hip as he collected the glass and made his way back to Crowley's room. 

Pausing at the doorway, he looked around and couldn't help but think Crowley designed the thing with far too many romance novels in mind. It had an absurd amount of deep burgundy silk on the bed, with pillows fit to swallow one whole, and a headboard taller than Aziraphale. It was just so...Crowley.

The sexy nutter.

Crowley was in the process of being swallowed up by his bedding, deep silk pooling around his hips and obscuring his face in the fold of it. He was sprawled in a set of pajamas, his hips indecently exposed by the low tide of a drawstring. His shirt rode upwards to reveal the dip of his navel. The trail of auburn curls that lingered from his belly button and into his waistband had Aziraphale's cheeks blushing. 

"Oh, heavens," Aziraphale whispered into the rim of the wine glass, forcing himself to focus. 

_His foot. Look at his foot!_ He forced his blue eyes away, examining the injury with maybe too much intensity. It was already bruised and swollen around the ankle. The poor man wouldn't be walking very much for the next few days.

"Poor Crowley." Aziraphale crooned, all improper thoughts forgotten. Leaning across the bed, he just managed to grab hold of the sheet and part them away from Crowley's face. "Here. That'll take away some of the embarrassment." He explained, offering the glass of wine with an outstretched hand. Crowley glowered up at him from the hollow he'd made, eyeing the glass with interest.

"Pff, don't have anything to be embarrassed about." Crowley reprimanded, taking it in hand and gulping down a heady sip. 

"You were chased by ducks and fell into a pond in front of most of the building!" Aziraphale reminded, giggling and pulling away as Crowley flailed a hand aggressively in his face.

"Thank you for the reminder." He groused, finishing off the glass with a long bob of his adam's apple. "Ugk...that hurts." He admitted, pulling the leg of his pajama bottoms upward so he could get a good look. The swelling went up above his ankle already. The bruising would probably darken hideously over the next few days.

"We should prop this up." Aziraphale offered, tching over the injury. Pointing towards a pillow, Crowley quickly took the hint and picked it up from across the bed, offering it to Aziraphale. 

Taking up the slim bones of Crowley's heel, Aziraphale hissed, prodding the area before sliding the pillow underneath. 

"Are you sure it's not broken?" Aziraphale asked, slipping the cold pack out of his pocket and draping it across the swollen flesh.

"Nah, 'tis but a flesh wound." Crowley waved him over, offering a reassuring smile. Aziraphale got that reference, giggling under his breath. If he could joke, then it probably wasn't too bad. "Come up here and lay with me."

Aziraphale eyed Crowley's bed, uncertain if that was a good idea. Finally, the draw of just curling up beside Crowley persuaded him. Or maybe it was his abs. Aziraphale wasn't sure he wanted to think too hard on it.

"Alright, but don't make fun of me," Aziraphale warned. He knew what he looked like getting into bed. In one word...foolish.

"Never!" Crowley took his hand and helped Aziraphale pull himself onto the bed. With a grunt of effort, Aziraphale shifted his hips back until he was pressed up against Crowley's side and the aching twist of his vertebrae braced against Crowley's shower warmed body. Crowley seemed to know how best to help and hooked one arm around Aziraphale's legs, easing them onto the bed with his usual tenderness.

"There, that wasn't too bad. You make a brilliant turtle."

"Hey, you promised not to tease me." Aziraphale sagged into the mattress. It was amazing, one-hundred percent better than his own, which had grown old and suffered from a particularly jabby spring. Using Crowley's shoulder as a pillow, he really couldn't bring himself to complain too much.

"Pfffbb...that's just facts." Crowley protested, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale's boney shoulders. He groaned as his poor foot was jostled. 

"I can't believe I did that. I haven't fallen since I was fifteen..." Crowley mumbled. "Suppose we'll have to hold on painting your flat." He sounded truly upset by that. 

"Tha walls have been red for years. They can wait." Aziraphale waved away his concern. There were bigger things to worry about at the moment. "Did you hurt anywhere else?" Aziraphale asked, his worry bubbling up. He couldn't help it. Worrying was practically his only occupation.

"Mmm, my back is sore."

"What about your head?"

"Nah, my head is fine," Crowley reassured, sitting up to give Aziraphale a look, one eye row curving upward like a swan's wing. "You alright, Parsnip?"

"Of course." Aziraphale patted the bed to urge him to lie down again, averting his eyes. "I'm not the one who fell." He reminded. "But...Maybe you should go see a doctor?" Aziraphale asked, looking up from under thick lashes. He couldn't help his concern. A lot of bad things happened when people hurt their heads. 

Crowley looked him over for a moment, considering Aziraphale's nervous face, before bending to press his lips to Aziraphale's forehead. "Don't worry so much, Aziraphale, I'm fine. Head is uninjured, no pain at all. Don't go panicking on me." Crowley dragged him into a tight hug, his lips brushing against Aziraphale's hair.

"If you get a headache, I'm calling for an ambulance."

"Alright, alright. Just sleep with me for a bit. Have some wine and relax."

"I can't have any wine...you drank it all." Aziraphale reminded.

Crowley's sound of disgust was oddly comforting, and they curled up against each other, starring at the empty remains of the wine glass and considering if they should bother getting more. Out in the sitting room, his watch began beeping again.

"Fuck..." Crowley groaned, staring at the door like it was the most loathful thing in existence. Forcing himself out of bed he snatched up the glass and hobbled around the foot of it. Aziraphale settled into the heated space he left behind. It was still warm and slightly damp from his wet hair. "I'm using this." Crowley grinned, his usual cheerful self reappearing as he jumped on one leg over to Aziraphale's crutch and snatched it from its place by the bedstand. Aziraphale giggled and watched him go, peering at his backside. He was leaning precariously on the too-short crutch as he walked out the door. He looked like a dolt, a handsome one, but a dolt nonetheless.

It was all Aziraphale could do, to withhold his curiosity and not ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I promised an early chapter, and instead have given you another late one. My creative spark needed a break I think, I finally got around to finish it, so here's the latest chapter. Thank you all for waiting!
> 
> I love hearing from you all,l thanks for all the comments and kudos!


	10. A Touch of Paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna give you guys a heads up. Sexy times are in this chapter. If you feel uncomfortable with this, go ahead and skip from the bedroom scene and down, to the next bird chapter break.

"What do you think of my new shirt?"

Aziraphale smiled as he opened the door to greet the man behind it. Then gawked, pushing the door open wider so he could see what exactly Crowley was talking about. It was a skimpy thing, coming up just above his navel and hanging off his shoulder by one thin strap—very Crowley. Then he read it. The words pasted across the front had Aziraphale sputtering. "Oh Lord, 'Cock-atiel Lover'?" He coughed, laughing under his breath. 

"Wha?! You like birds, I know you do." Crowley was sex embodied as he leaned against the door frame, his hips straining the edges of his already paint-stained black trousers.

"I think that might be offensive to both gay men and bird lovers everywhere, darling. And...it's not very practical, now is it?"

"Nah, rave reviews, huge hit this. It's a one-hit-wonder, though. So a little paint ain't gonna hurt," Crowley denied, his pleased grin turning to something a little more lurid as he gestured down his body with the paintbrush in his hand. "Should have seen your neighbor Gabriel's face. Thought he was gonna pop a vein." He said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard down the hall. Which made Aziraphale believe that Gabriel was possibly just around the corner, listening in on their conversation.

Aziraphale snorted, leaning around the open the door to see for himself. There was Gabriel, looking very churlish indeed, where he fussed with his door key. "Oh dear, get in here before he has a stroke," Aziraphale ordered, tugging him inside.

"So, what's this about a paint party?" Crowley asked, willingly following Aziraphale's lead but making a twit of himself in the process. Why, oh why, did he need to sashay his hips like that in Gabriel's general direction? His ankle had to be feeling better. There's no way a man could point his toes like that and not have fully functioning joints.

"Well, it's not much of a party. Newt just left." Aziraphale explained, kicking his foot against the painters plastic lining the floor to try and smooth it out. "He has a certification course today. Anathema was insistent on it. So it's just us," Aziraphale admitted, blushing as Crowley leaned in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Aziraphale liked to think it was a bit plumper now, worth being lingered over by soft lips. According to the scale this morning, he'd gained two pounds over the last week. Being home did wonders for his appetite.

"Sounds like a party to me." Crowley murmured, a soft smile lingering in the corners of his eyes. "Point me in the direction and put me to work!" He encouraged, twirling the paintbrush about on the rim of one long nail.

"Well, Newt's done the hard work. All that's left is the painting." Aziraphale explained, leaning heavily on his crutch and turning to examine the mess that was his living room. The bulk of his bookshelves had been shoved and pushed into the center of the room. They now stood like empty monoliths of knowledge, hulking things that blocked most of the natural light. 

It'd been a lot of work. Spanning several days. Aziraphale had done his best to pack up the books and assist in any way he could, but Newt was a godsend, doing the bulk of the work without a word of annoyance. He'd need to make sure and give a bit extra on the lads pay, as a thank you.

"Come, tell me what you think of the color. It's called Alaska Blue. Have you ever been to Alaska? There's a lovely Spruce Grouse from that region. Fantastic plumage. They aren't the best of fliers though, poor clumsy dears."

Sitting in a chair, curled up just beside the creaking groan of a ladder, it was all Aziraphale could do not to look up and stare at the beautiful creature standing above him. He was reminded of their little text message exchange. _'Is this just an excuse to see my painting muscles?'_ Oh heavens, it'd seemed ridiculous at the time, but now Aziraphale was quite sure Crowley had been one-hundred percent correct.

The problem was, Crowley was _fit._ Days of hard labor and working in the sun made him quite the specimen. The play of Crowley's taut muscles under tan skin was very distracting as he stretched upwards, digging his brush into the seam where the wall met the ceiling. He looked just as sexy in paint-stained jeans and his new top as he did in anything. His hair pulled back with a headscarf, his tummy showing as his shirt road upwards. 

That in itself was hardly unexpected, seeing as Crowley had the inability to purchase appropriately sized shirts. What was of more intrigue was the cute little indentation of Crowley's belly button. It was a lovely little thing. A nibble of flesh fit for teeth, is what that was. 

Crowley cleared his throat, and Aziraphale startled, the paint on his brush splatting down onto his pants in the process as he jerked his eyes away from the tempting flesh and turned them upwards to meet Crowley's eyes over the wood beam of the ladder step. 

"Enjoying the view?" Crowley teased, head tilting on his neck curiously, little drifts of red spewing out from under his headscarf in haphazard swirls. Opff...caught red-handed.

It was just the two of them. There was no one there to judge Aziraphale's greedy eyes. Even so, he couldn't help the blush that fizzled up under his skin. Straightening up his shoulders, Aziraphale let out a prim little sound, turning up his nose to the other man. "And if I was?" He asked a tad bit breathlessly.

"Well, love," Crowley wiggled one paint-stained finger in a come-hither motion. Aziraphale, blushing, silly thing that he was, found himself getting to his feet. He could never resist Crowley's requests. Crowley leaned down until the only thing separating them was a step down the ladder. "I'd say I'm not dressed this way for nothing." 

And then he promptly reached out and plopped said sticky paint-covered fingers right on to Aziraphale's nose. With a squawk, Aziraphale jerked back, his bottom plopping onto the cushion of the chair. 

"Crowley! You wicked, wicked man!" Wiping at his nose, Aziraphale pointed his brush in a most threatening manner at the chortling idiot in front of him. Crowley's throaty laugh had him grinning, but he could not condone such behavior! 

Or...maybe he could. 

What transpired was quite the wicked paint battle. Despite his own best attempts, Aziraphale was the undeniable loser. Shrieking, he covered the top of his head before Crowley could finish off painting his curls blue.

"I told you, heathen, I yield!" He wailed, shoving at Crowley's chest with the points of his elbows until he was free of those snake-like limbs. He was positively covered in paint. Crowley had been completely relentless.

"You cheated." Setting back, Aziraphale gave his best scowl, which was wholly lost thanks to the grin his face was currently sporting.

"Did not!" Crowley backed away, hips swaggering about, his voice breathless with laughter. He hadn't come out completely undamaged either. 

"Did too. You trapped me in the chair, you hellion!" Aziraphale grumbled. As a result, Crowley's belly was a brilliant shade of Alaska Blue, and his shirt looked like it had been touched up by a smurf. Aziraphale felt terrible about that, but only a little. If Crowley had let him up out of his chair, he might have been able to aim higher, like towards that priggish smirk.

Struggling out of the chair, Aziraphale righted himself, still breathless and grinning ear to ear. "You are a bit of a bastard Anthony Crowley." Tugging his shirt into rights, Aziraphale didn't sound half as upset about that as he thought he should. Crowley chuckled, stepping forward into Aziraphale's space, his broad shoulders bowing as he tilted his head to look Aziraphale over, mischief glinting in his eyes.

Mmm...are you telling me you're not, Parsnip?" He asked, his breath ghosting against Aziraphale's lips, his eyes blocking out the rest of the world until Aziraphale was swallowed by dry autumn leaves and sunshine, starring up into them, entranced. "You gave as good as you got."

Aziraphale's back thumped up against the damp wall. He hadn't even realized he was backing away. Hardly noticed the wet stick of it now, as their mouths met, coming together in a desperate, aching kiss.

Aziraphale gasped, twisting his free hand into the hem of Crowley's collar, letting himself be consumed as the hard lines of Crowley's long body pressed into his. The bones of Crowley's hips dug into his belly, the shocking jolt of an already hard sex pressing into his stomach.

"Anthony?" Aziraphale moaned, his head falling back, as hot lips dropped from his, traveling downward, along the column of his neck. 

"Angel?" Crowley croaked, his voice deep and sultry. Desperate hands yanked the hem of Aziraphale's workshirt free from his trousers. Pulled and tugged until they could slip underneath and grasp onto the tight expanse of Aziraphale's belly. 

"Oh...Lord." Aziraphale's breath hissed out of his lungs as Crowley dragged the hem of his top upward. He'd never wanted something so much and been so afraid at the same time. This was good, oh God, yes, very, very good. And yet, this was terrifying. His heart was hammering in his chest. His breath came in stuttering gasps. 

"Is this okay?" Crowley whispered against the lobe of Aziraphale's ear, his fingers traveling upward, dragging against soft skin until they reached their destination. The hard nub of Aziraphale's nipple ached under his touch, tightening into a little bud of sheer pleasure as the calloused pad of a gardener's thumb took it over. Aziraphale arched into the touch, rolling his hips as best he could, given the range of motion he had. 

"God...yes," His knees buckled until the only thing holding him up was the sudden, hard band of Crowley's arm around his waist, his fingers digging into the swell of Aziraphale's bottom and tugging him in close. 

"Careful." Crowley murmured, chuckling soft and warm, like Aziraphale losing his balance was the cutest thing and in no way distracted from the raging need the both of them were feeling. "You're shaking. Come here." Crowley drew him in close, burying his face to Aziraphale's neck, and just...slowed down. How caring Crowley was, how considerate and kind. It never failed to amaze him how well Crowley read his cues and just knew what he needed. 

Aziraphale clung to him, his cane knocking the back of a bookshelf as he wrapped his arms around Crowley, tangling fingers into the scarf taming his hair and yanking it free so that bright red locks cascaded around him, a curtain of auburn blurring out the rest of the world. 

"You want to stop, just let me know," Crowley whispered, and didn't that just sound horrible?

"No, no, it's fine, I'm just...it's been a while," Aziraphale leaned back, pressing his lips to Crowley's, nibbling gently on the soft flesh of his lower lip. Crowley hummed, taking the hint and returning Aziraphale's uncertain touch with an assured press of his lips and a slow dip of his tongue into Aziraphale's mouth. 

Aziraphale had no memory of how they got to the bedroom. Just the clatter of his crutch against the floor and the creak of the bedroom door opening. Just warm lips, giving way to a hard, demanding slick tongue that crawled into his mouth and buried his senses in strawberry chapstick and mint. 

Glancing around in an effort to try to keep his feet under him, Aziraphale got a brief impression of his bedroom. Walls lined with boxes and books stacked on his navy bedding. Then, the soft edge of his bed. With a harumph of sound, Aziraphale settled onto the side.

Books, books, he had stored some on the bed, but there wasn't any room for literature at the moment. They crashed to the floor, pushed to the side by Crowley's hands. Aziraphale barely noticed because he had a lap full of hot, needy Crowley to contend with. Muscular thighs straddled his hips. A wide hand cupped the back of Aziraphale's head, fingers running sticky thick through the paint in his hair. Slowly, gently, until whatever trembling, nervous creature in Aziraphale's belly had turned into liquid desire and aching need.

Crowley's hands were doing something to the buttons of Aziraphale's workshirt, twisting and pulling them apart until the fabric gave way to Aziraphale's undershirt. That bit of cloth didn't stand a chance, and before Aziraphale knew it, his shirt was being yanked over his head. He knew what was hidden underneath.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale tried to maintain some decorum as the other man dropped downward, his lips clasping around Aziraphale's nipple, sucking that bit of flesh into his mouth with a moan of appreciation. 

Aziraphale gave as good as he got, working at the button to Crowley's trouser, twisting it open and unzipping them with trembling fingers. He delved a hand inside, palming the swell of Crowley through the elastic of his underwear. Crowley moaned, eagerly riding Aziraphale's palm. 

It wasn't enough, and Crowley didn't seem to think so either. With a chuckle of mild embarrassment, he stood up long enough to shimmy the sinfully tight fabric of his trousers down off his hips and around his ankles. Sitting up, Aziraphale laughed, giddy and nervous, as Crowley tripped over his own feet and almost toppled sideways, catching himself on the dresser. The picture frames on the top wobbled precariously.

"Oy, don't make fun. This is supposed to be sexy." Crowley growled, straightening up, indignant and quite obviously aroused. His legs were just as tan as the rest of him. His black briefs clung to the lines of his thighs, outlining the swell of him. The fact that his belly was bright blue from the paint was in no way off-putting. It was nice. Gave a bit of humanity to the greek god standing before him with his impressive muscles and gorgeous tanned skin.

"Not teasing you, come here," Aziraphale whispered, holding out his hand and tugging Crowley closer to the bed when he took it. Aziraphale knew his limits when it came to moving about or bending. Luckily, Crowley was tall enough that, with Aziraphale sitting, he could touch and browse Crowley's body easily enough. He wanted to taste him, to linger and discover everything that was Crowley. Which really brought to mind something important.

"Hate to bore, but are you clean?" Aziraphale asked, peering nervously up at the other man. That question would usually make or break a couple. He had a fair idea that Crowley was healthy, but it was always better to ask. 

"Yeah, it's been ages, but yeah." He looked sheepish, adorably uncomfortable as he shrugged his shoulders. How unlikely was that? Crowley was extremely attractive. Every gay man this side of London probably wanted in his pants. "Do you have a condom?" 

"Mmmm...I have some in the drawer." Aziraphale admitted, distractedly, indicating the nightstand beside his bed. Oh, the conversation he'd had with Anathema to get those. 

Avoiding the paint splashed against Crowley's belly, Aziraphale bent to press his lips to the hard edge of Crowley's hipbone. The high hem of his crop top made it easy to access. At the same time, he drew his fingers up the other man's thighs, working them into the band of his underwear and tugged, pulling them down until the hot damp head of him popped free, pressing against Aziraphale's collarbone. 

"Fuck." Crowley jumped. Aziraphale did too, swallowing hard. That was another man's sex, pressing to the underside of his chin. Crowley made a noise, somewhere between a whimper and a gasp for more. When Aziraphale took him in hand, oh how lovely he sounded, he was so gorgeous, so beautiful and eager for anything Aziraphale had to offer. The long line of him was something to behold. Crowley's hand to his chin stopped Aziraphale from going any further. "You little beast...let me get a condom."

His voice sounded strained. It made Aziraphale beam with some internal pleasure, maybe pride. He made Crowley react like that. 

Stepping back to delve into the drawer, Crowley's bottom as he bent over was a proper peach, perfect in every way. Lucky thing. When he stood back up, holding the foils and a bottle of lube, his sex bobbed in the air, straining and pink with need. He still looked like a dolt with that silly shirt on, the fabric framing him just so.

"Crowley, dear, have I ever told you how beautiful you are," Aziraphale asked, looking up into those perfect eyes and that lopsided, fangy smile. Crowley blushed, a lovely pink tint staining his cheeks, and scratched at the bag of his head.

"Hmm, look who's talking. Scootch your arse up on the bed, yeah?"

"But..." Aziraphale waved at the other man's state of undress, hoping that brought across his genuine desire to explore Crowley's body. Despite his protesting, he did as he was told, shifting upward until he was entangled in his nest of pillows. It was hardly sexy, but he did manage to shift a pillow under his hips, easing the painful arch of his back. Dapples of paint trailed after him, staining the sheet and clinging to the pillowcase behind his head. It was messy, filthy, really, but Aziraphale couldn't bring himself to care.

"There's time for that later. Right now. I really, really want you out of those clothes." One eyebrow raised, Crowley crawled after, moving in to lay himself beside Aziraphale. They kissed, and at this point, they'd kissed enough that there was nothing nerve-racking about that.

He could live like this, breathing in Crowley's breath, turning to butter under exploring fingers as they delved downward, catching on the button to his trousers. Aziraphale whimpered, straining as Crowley's hand slid low, palming the swell of him and grinding down on it with a rolling twist of his palm, working him off through the fabric of his trousers until he thought he might burst.

"Nnn..." He moaned, biting his lower lip and wrinkling his nose in an effort not to embarrass himself that very moment. It felt good, better than his own hand ever had. Crowley chuckled, his voice growing distant as followed his hands downward, layering kisses down Aziraphale's belly, tongue tracing the rim of his belly button before dipping lower, so his teeth could tug at the band of Aziraphale's trousers. 

"Can I take these off, love?"

"God, yes." Aziraphale squeaked, his voice breaking at the sight of Crowley, bowed down against him, mouthing the edge of his erection where it pressed against the zipper of his trousers.

Crowley practically purred, if sharks could purr, that is. His mouth twisting into a pleased little mewl of concentration as he slipped Aziraphale's zipper downward and started stripping him down. Aziraphale yelped as he was suddenly, very naked indeed. The stiff jut of his penis straining in the cool air of the room, standing out for Crowley's eyes alone to see.

And hadn't it been awhile. "Oh, heavens." Aziraphale blushed, one of those all over flushes that started at his neck and made it's way down his chest. Unable to help himself, he covered himself hurriedly with a palm. Hiding away from Crowley's eyes. It wasn't that he hadn't done this before, but first times were always so darned....frightening!

"Oh, don't do that, love." Crowley bent, pressing kisses along the closed cup of Aziraphale's hand. His breath was hot, where it fluttered between the spaces of his fingers. Aziraphale strained upward, aching for more, despite his shyness.

"I am sorry."

"Should be, look at you, hiding that lovely cock from my sight," Crowley growled, his teeth nipping along the seam of Aziraphale's fingers.

"The mouth on you!" Aziraphale choked, reaching for a pillow and dragging it across his face to hide behind. Why was the word cock arousing? Heaven help him, Crowley was infectious. He'd never felt so mortified in his life. "You are utterly filthy."

"Pff, methinks you like it, love. Come on, give us a look?" Crowley rumbled. Aziraphale could feel the soft waft of his breath ghosting a lingering over his pale skin. "You're beautiful. Look at this belly. Like warm cream. You smell good too." As if to prove his point, he buried his nose against the swell of Aziraphale's hip and inhaled.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the praise, peering from under the pillow to give him a glare. Rediculous. he had never had someone compliment him so. Sighing softly, he let his hand drift away. There really was no reason to be nervous, this was Crowley, and if there was one thing Crowley did not invite, it was modesty.

Crowley hummed, soft and warm, his eyes diving to see all of Aziraphale. He didn't just look over Aziraphale's sex, his eyes lingered, yes, but he also traveled lower, sitting back to inspect Aziraphale's knobby knees. Fingers diving in between Aziraphale's thighs to part them. He bent, pressing kisses to the surgical scars that littered Aziraphale's belly, lingering on each one with an intense interest that left Aziraphale blushing and not feeling ashamed in the slightest. 

Crowley looked him over like he was edible. Like his body was a lovely delicate thing, and not the skinny, scarred up worm Aziraphale imagined himself to be.

Then, once he'd looked his fill, Crowley took him in hand and worked him to an aching tension. Until Aziraphale's hips rocked and twitched and ached to function in terms of thrusting and rolling. Aziraphale sobbed, switching to grab Crowley's shoulder, to hold a fistful of hair with his other hand and tug Crowley towards him. 

Crowley resisted, nipping Aziraphale's fingers away, before turning his teeth towards other things. The condom wrapper tore, and Crowley growled his approval, sitting up. The slide of latex down Aziraphale's sex was a twist of pleasure all it owns. 

That meant only one thing. Crowley was anticipating he'd be the one to top. "Crowley!" Aziraphale croaked, laughing breathlessly. This was terribly embarrassing but, "I prefer...the other end of things." 

"Oh...are you a bottom, Aziraphale." Crowley looked him over, a dry, teasing smile lighting up his eyes. Aziraphale blushed even brighter, if that were possible, starring up at the ceiling.

"That really isn't...a good way to describe it." He'd just always somehow ended up on the receiving end of things. It wasn't like he had an aversion for it. His experience was somewhat limited, though. "It's a matter of inexperience."

"Mmmm, why the hell does that get me off?" Crowley asked, seemingly talking to himself more than anything. Aziraphale considered giving his ripe bottom a thwap for that, but the dirty man would probably enjoy it. "We'll research how I can get my cock in you later, sweetheart. But for now, I think this will work?"

"Yes," Aziraphale sounded breathless and needy. The idea of taking Crowley was very appealing if he were honest. 

"Good," Crowley growled, giving him another squeeze as he crawled upward, snaking his body up Aziraphale's in a slow, sensual draw of flesh on flesh until he straddled Aziraphale's waist oh..so... carefully.

Aziraphale couldn't help it, old instincts took over, and he lifted his hips upwards to meet that slow grinding caress. His back spasmed, grumbling with every twitch of his hips, putting up a caterwauling cry deep down in his spine. It took the niggling ache for Aziraphale to realize that, as much as he wanted this, he had no idea how to go about it.

"Nnn," Aziraphale clutched at the blankets, breathing in to calm his twittering heart. "I'm not sure if...this is a good idea. I don't really operate this way." 

"Love, have you had sex...since?" Crowley asked, gesturing to Aziraphale's crutch. His gaze was sweet and concerned, the fire in them dying down to a slow smolder. 

"No." Wasn't that the truth? Heavens, he was practically celibate.

To his surprised, that didn't seem to deter Crowley much at all. The redhead just eyed him, considering him like he was some sort of puzzle.

"Don't worry, love. I'll do the work. You just tell me if it stops feeling good." And then he did something completely unexpected. Aziraphale watched as Crowley reached behind himself, his eyes fluttering closed as his long fingers delved behind, doing sinful things between parted cheeks.

"What are you doing?" Shifting so he could get a better view, Aziraphale choked on his saliva. Oh dear heavens, that was...sexier than he remembered it. Snatching up the lube, Aziraphale offered some up for, heart kicking into sharp staccato as Crowley accepted, And then delved back in with greedy fingers. 

One thick red brow raised, and Crowley made a noise of pleasure closing his eyes. "What does it look like I'm doing?" His voice was strained as he worked his fingers into himself, the soft oh of his mouth gaping open with hungry, needy gasps. He looked so beautiful and eager. 

"That's hardly fair, you doing all the work." Aziraphale hissed, wanting to protest, but his head was going in other directions. He wanted, maybe even needed, to be precisely where those fingers were.

"You won't see me complaining, Parsnip. Shite!" Cursing under his breath, a sound of pleasure escaped him. The need to touch him was unbearable.

"As long as you don't mind..." Reaching out, Aziraphale ran his palm down the length of Crowley's torso, rubbing the pad of his thumb into the soft dip of his belly button. That stupid shirt was in the way, tangling in Aziraphale's fingers. Tugging on the hem of it, he urged the dark fabric upwards. "Take this off." 

"Believe me, Parsnip. I don't mind." Crowley winked, and he was the sun incarnate, his long arms, tight biceps straining as he pulled the fabric up over his head, tossing it to a place unknown before continuing his self penetration. His hips rippled and rolled to the gait of his own creation. The fading light coming in through the window cast them in rich rays of yellow. It praised Crowley's skin, exposing every inch of it to the fading sun.

It was in the bright light that Aziraphale saw _them_ , bisecting the expanse of Crowley's chest. Scars. Deep, surgical lines twisting across muscles and skin. Heart slamming in his chest, Aziraphale's eyes lingered there. Crowley stilled, and when Aziraphale looked upwards, it was to catch uncertain eyes. He had questions, so many. But now wasn't the time. If Crowley could accept him for all his flaws, Aziraphale would do the same. They needed a distraction.

Reaching out, he traced the pale lines of raised scar tissue, sliding his palm over to squeeze the hard muscle of his chest. His other hand working up Crowley's thighs, drawing to the apex until he took hold of the beautiful length. 

"Ngk!" Crowley jerked, rolling desperately into Aziraphale's palm, discomfort forgotten. He was such a creature of desire, letting it draw him back in the moment with sounds of approval.

Aziraphale was happy to comply, drawing out a tight bead of precome, working Crowley with slow, drawn-out pulls. Crowley moaned, and the look of his face twisting with pleasure was so intriguing that Aziraphale couldn't help but reach out and pull him down into a sinful kiss.

Tongue and teeth clashed. The hot swell of Crowley's tongue invading Aziraphale's mouth demanding, taking all Aziraphale had to offer. It was heaven, strawberry heaven mixed in with the odd metallic taste of paint and the sharp bite of teeth scrapping along his lower lip. 

Aziraphale didn't get a chance to quite see what Crowley was doing down below. He didn't have to wait long. A lube slicked palm took hold of Aziraphale, and moan desperately into Crowley's mouth as he was guided inside.

Hot, slick muscles enveloped Aziraphale with a slow, inching tension. Aziraphale moaned a low, throaty thing that he didn't think he had in him. In response, Crowley whined, soft and sweet. His lips stilling against Aziraphale's as he sat up. Back arched, brows twisted in a tight line of concentration. His teeth glinted white as he bit down hard on his lower lip. 

He was swimming in the overwhelming sensation of being taken in, swallowed up, as Crowley sunk down onto him with slow twitches and pulls of internal muscles. Then he was inside Crowley, root to tip swallowed into the deep hot depths of him, Crowley beautiful tan thighs parting to make room for him deep inside.

Neither one could think much after that, just the slow, rolling rhythm of bodies coming together, working towards release. Aziraphale took hold of Crowley's hips, urging him up and down his length, encouraging Crowley to go harder, to take what he needed with soft keening sounds of approval. 

Crowley was wild, hair damp and skin glossy and slick with sweat, his thighs flexing as they carried them closer and closer. Aziraphale took Crowley in hand, working him to the rhythm Crowley created. When Aziraphale came, it was to the tightening squeeze of Crowley's own climax rippling around him, gripping him with the slow drag of satiated muscles. The hot spill of seed stained his belly as he grabbed Crowley's hips and pulled him down, spilling deep within him. 

The slow incoming of the moon found them sprawled out on the dark navy of Aziraphale's duvet. Curled up together in the afterglow of it all. His eyes were heavy, drowsy from exertion, and the long day. Crowley was similarly satiated, snuggled in against his side, his body as tangled up around Aziraphale's as Aziraphale could handle, without his back twitching up a storm.

Pressing his face to the warm muscle of Crowley's chest, he listened to the quiet beat of the other man's heart. _Thump thump._

Long fingers tingled their way through his hair, burrowing into the pale curls of it and working out bits and pieces of paint. Aziraphale barely noticed. He was content in the arms of his lover. Unwilling to do much more than mumble a sound of appreciation as those hands delved lower, digging into the muscles at the base of his neck.

"Oh..." Aziraphale burrowed his face into Crowley's neck, sighing drowsily. He'd wrestled himself into a pair of loose bottoms, sometime after, to proper to lay there, tousled and nude. Crowley, after some grumbling about modest angels, had snatched up a set for himself. They were far too short, exposing his ankles and riding up his muscular calves. 

"How's your back feel? We got a little carried away there at the end." Crowley had never sounded so pleased before. He had every right to be, though. He'd been magnificent. The vision of him was still burned behind Aziraphale's eyes. Best not tell him that, though. Lifting his head, Aziraphale bit onto the flesh of Crowley's shoulder, laughing softly. 

"You sound proud of yourself, you naughty thing. I'm fine." Aziraphale said, kissing the red marks and turning to offer his lips for something more personal. Crowley complied, straining his neck to plant a soft kiss on his lips. 

"Look at you." Crowley murmured, tucking strands of hair back behind Aziraphale's ear, his eyes searching Aziraphale's as if uncertain of what he was seeing. 

"What are you looking at?" Aziraphale asked, closing his eyes as long fingers moved to brush down Aziraphale's cheek, tracing the outline of his lips and the contours of his eyes. Memorizing. That's what it felt like. Being memorized and entranced all at the same time. Seeking hands lingering over every nook and crevice, each dip of his features. Aziraphale sighed, drowsily giving himself over to the affection.

"Mmm....just the man I'm falling for." Crowley's voice whispered beside him. It took him a moment to register what Crowley had said. When he did, Aziraphale opened his eyes, jerking his head back to stare into Crowley's eyes, mouth open in stunned surprise.

Crowley was grinning like a fool, a silly, absurd grin, so full of life and vibrance that Aziraphale thought he looked ready to burst. Slowly, he brought up on hand, using it to cover Aziraphale's open mouth.

"Don't look so surprised, Parsnip. I've loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you." He whispered, bending to press a kiss to the corners of Aziraphale's eyes. His lips came away wet. Aziraphale wasn't even aware of the teardrops escaping the corners of his eyes. Wasn't thinking much of anything as the words echoed in his head. Crowley had just made a love confession. Crowley loved him? Oh god, Crowley loved him!

 _Do I love him back?_ Then, more profound, darker thoughts, _What would Rapheal think?_

Crowley noticed, of course, he did. His brow furrowed, his lips pursed, but all he did was just smile a sad, beautiful smile.

"You don't have to say it back, Aziraphale. I've waited. I don't mind waiting longer, or forever, whatever you need." He whispered, pulling Aziraphale in for a hug. Aziraphale's hips protested, but his heart didn't. How was it that Crowley could always be so self-sacrificing, always ready to give Aziraphale precisely what he needed? Burying his face against the crook of Crowley's neck, he sobbed, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and clinging.

"I'm sorry, it's not fair. It's not." Aziraphale whispered. He knew it, he did, but even with everything they'd been through, Aziraphale wasn't confident he could let the ghosts of his past go. Oh, how they haunted him. He was always so afraid. Afraid to let people in, to _risk_ losing everything all over again. If _it_ happened again, if he lost another person...he wasn't sure he could make it. How many more times could he glue together the pieces of himself? He was a coward. "I don't know if I can even feel that way," Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley's breath hitched, underneath his ear, then the other man inhaled a deep breath, his chest rising. "I know." His lips were muffled against the curve of Aziraphale's scalp, "You've been through so much, Aziraphale... I know there are things you haven't told me-" Aziraphale sat up, guilt overwhelming him, but Crowley didn't let him go, shaking his head and pulling Aziraphale down to his chest once more. "That's okay! I didn't mean it like that. We've got time. We've got time, Aziraphale...I'm not going anywhere."

Somehow that was exactly what Aziraphale needed to hear. Crowley wasn't going anywhere. Crowley was staying. He understood. And wasn't that enough? Sniffling, Aziraphale pulled up the covers and settled into the warm embrace of Crowley's arms. 

"Shhh...go to sleep, my Angel, I've got you," Crowley whispered, his voice pulling Aziraphale down. It'd been a long day, full of so many revelations.

Sleep proved elusive. Even with a full day behind him, Aziraphale's worried head didn't want to turn off. Looking out the window, he watched the moon drift downward until it shone through the glass, brightening the room just enough to cast shadows from the boxes lining the wall. There was always something so haunting about being awake at night. Until now, nighttime had been about breathing in the shadow heavy air and feeling the loneliness settle in. 

Tonight was different, though. The soft noises of a sleeping Crowley punctuated the silence. The delicate heat of him pressed into Aziraphale's side and kept away the chill. A soft bicep, lax in sleep, pillowed the crook of his neck. There was nothing lonely about tonight. Rolling over, Aziraphale gazed down at Crowley's sleeping features.

In the moonlight, there was something ethereal about him. The glow softening the crook of his nose, the sharp dip of his cheekbones, turning his hair to muted fire. Crowley looked like an elf or something similarly mythical. Long limbs sprawled across Aziraphale's bed, one leg poking out of the edge of the covers, the other tangled underneath the crook of Aziraphale's knees. He'd pushed the blankets down off his chest some time ago. Crowley slept hot. He was like a mini furnace. Even now, his chest was glistening with a light tint of sweat. 

Settling his head on Crowley's chest, Aziraphale traces his fingers through the dewy surface, quietly exploring the world laid out before him. His fingers worked down hard muscle, tracing beneath one hard pec, and up, to drag his nail around the slight perk of Crowley's nipple. The flesh tightened and crimped under his delicate touch, dark and tantalizing. Aziraphale let himself explore, touching where he'd only dreamed of being able to. The ripple of dormant abs, the delicate pinched in waist and sharp, angular hip bones. 

His eyes lingered on the pale, bisecting line of scar tissue the parted Crowleys chest. Starring at it, Aziraphale thought he could understand where it'd come from. Surgery, heart, or lung. Either way, it'd probably been traumatic, painful. Maybe even life-altering?

No wonder Crowley was always so kind, so considerate, and empathetic. He'd been through enough to understand suffering. Gently, Aziraphale traced the edge of those defined marks, running his fingers downward. Collar to sternum, someone had split him open. Delved inside and fixed him. Made him whole so that one day he'd get the chance to meet Aziraphale. 

Crowley's arm shifted in the darkness, then moved upward, so that he could clasp his fingers around the pale expanse of Aziraphale's.

"Still awake?" Crowley rumbled, his voice vibrating against Aziraphale's ear as he inhaled, then let out a yawn. Aziraphale smiled, nodding his head, but otherwise quiet. He wasn't ready for words. "Mmm..." Crowley sounded groggy, his eyes, when Aziraphale looked up, squinted. Only one lid making it semi-open. 

He looked ready to fall back asleep. Aziraphale left him to it, continuing his gentle examination. If he focused, he thought he could see the little pockmarks where the stitches had scared. Aziraphale's heart hurt, thinking about what Crowley had gone through. The pain alone had to have been unbearable.

"I was in the hospital for two weeks, waiting for this heart." Crowley's voice broke the darkness, his words soft, barely there. Like he wasn't sure he even wanted to speak them out loud. Aziraphale flinched, looking up to meet sad, mournful eyes. Crowley didn't really seem to notice him, to lost in his own memories.

"I died...twice," Crowley whispered, shaking his head and dropping it back against the pillows. "I died twice, and that's still the happiest moment of my whole life."

"Oh, Anthony," Aziraphale whispered, wrapping his arms around the chest, pressing his ear to the urgent, thumping sound of Crowley's heart. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, honestly, I'm grateful for it. I had to live my whole life, appreciating every moment, like it was gonna be my last." Crowley explained. "It made me a better person. It made me not want to sweat the little shite. To just...take in the world every day, because I had no idea if that would be my last one." 

And wasn't that...just the opposite of how Aziraphale had reacted. Aziraphale saw death and ran, hid from the world, for fear of ever experiencing it again. Crowley saw death and leapt. Leapt and celebrated every day like it was the only one he had. This was what made Crowley so accepting, so kind. This is how Crowley knew. How Crowley saw a lost, lonely man and understood how to help.

"I died, and when I woke up. They'd performed surgery, but I was still fucking dying. The surgery didn't work. I was just lying there. Hoping for someone to save me. Shite, the list for organ transplants is miles long. I didn't stand a chance. Until one day, I did." Crowley laughed, shaking his head and wiping tears from his eyes. At that moment, he was the most beautiful man Aziraphale had ever since. Right down, through his soul. Crowley might call Aziraphale an angel, but Crowley truly was one. "I've never been so damn grateful for another person. It's still surreal, thinking about how somebody had to die so I could live."

Sitting up, Aziraphale helped him wipe away his tears. Pressed kisses to the corners of his eyes, to soothe their passing, and traced his fingers through Crowley's hair. "I can't imagine how that must have been," Aziraphale whispered, leaning over to kiss him, trying his best to take away that sorrow. Crowley sat up, pulling Aziraphale carefully into his lap and squeezing him tight. He smiled a tired, grateful thing.

"Thank you," He whispered, settling his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. He fell into contemplative silence, rocking slowly against the headboard of the bed. Aziraphale let himself be held. It felt like that was what the two of them needed. 

"Hmm," Crowley broke the quiet. "Do you remember when I said I knew three Devices? This is the third Device I know." His hand thumped against his ribcage, coming to rest right over where his heart was hidden underneath. "My heart, it's from a man named Raphael Device...he saved my life."

Aziraphale didn't hear what Crowley said after that. No, he was too busy falling, his heart plummeting down....down...down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys this is it, this is the moment I have had visualized FOREVER, that scene was the scene that made me want to write this fic. It's been waiting in the backlog of my story notes for the last few months, just stewing in its own feelings. The feels!  
> I'm sorry, but things will get a little bit more emotional from here, the angst tag is gonna come into play big time. 
> 
> I had a hard time with the sexy part of this chapter. I wanted to give these guys a moment, but at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to make it superduper descriptive. This was my happy medium. It's shiny, like a terrible romance novel.
> 
> On the plus side, things are finally coming to a conclusion. These little love birds are gonna get their happy ending. The countdown starts, two chapters left. I'm not crying, are you crying?


	11. He Doesn't Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dropping both chapters at once, so don't forget to click forward to read the final story
> 
> Soundtrack for this chapter is  
> What Have I Done by Dermot Kennedy  
> Release - Grace Potter

"I-I have to go." Aziraphale gasped, pulling away from Crowley's warm chest. 

"Aziraphale?"

"No, just..." Scrambling from the bed, Aziraphale barely made it on two feet before he crumbled. He hardly felt his knees crash into the carpet. Gasping desperate, shaking, breathes, he couldn't hear anything through the ringing in his ears and erratic crash of his heart slamming against his ribs. 

_His heart._

"Aziraphale, love? Your cane!"

There was a sudden blazing light as Crowley flipped on the overhead lighting, and Aziraphale ducked, wincing from its brittle rays as they dug into his sensitive eyes.

_His heart!_

"Don't say that! Don't call me love, don't say my name. I'm fine. I have to go." It was only with Crowley's help, with warm, confused hands that grasped around his underarms and pulled him upright, that he managed to get back on his feet. 

"Alright. Shh...this is your flat, Parsnip. You don't need to go anywhere. Here-" More uncertain touches, this time wrangling his too heavy limbs into terry cotton sleeves and a robe that hung down to his ankles. Aziraphale couldn't even say thanks, couldn't do much at all past the terrifying desire to flee. To run. He needed space, time to think.

"You have to go. You need to leave now." Aziraphale gasped, stumbling out of his room and heading for his medicine cabinet. His nose was slammed with the smell of drying paint, and he couldn't see much of anything past the dim light shining from his bedroom doorway, but he managed to drag the tray down, even if most of the bottles spilled across the floor. He needed something to take the edge off the overwhelming path that his head was heading down.

 _His heart. Oh, my God!_ The words kept repeating inside his head, smashing about like billiards balls. 

"Can you tell me what's wrong? Can I help?" Crowley asked, dropping to his knees and scrambling to gather the displaced bottles.

Aziraphale shook his head, gasping for breath, the panic attack striking him somewhere deep in his chest, making it impossible to convey what he needed.

It was Crowley, who brought him a glass of water, who pulled the medicine bottle out of his numb, ninny fingers and popped their caps, offering him the prescribed dose. Tossing them back, Aziraphale gulped down the miscellaneous tablets, water spilling over his chin and in icy, shocking trails down his chest. Coughing, he clung to the edge of the counter and braced himself, leaning against the hard marble before he fell on his bottom.

Gentle hands fluttered along his shoulders, barely perceptible through the thick fabric of his robe. Aziraphale flinched from their touch, pulling away from Crowley, even though it made his heartache. He couldn't touch him right now. 

"You need to leave. Right now." Aziraphale whispered, wiping tears from his eyes and pointing at the door. Crowley stumbled back, eyes widening with alarm, lips twisting downward into a dejected, somber thing that twisted at Aziraphale's gut for having put it there. His eyes searched Aziraphale's, looking for some sort of clue as to what was going on. 

"Now, Crowley!" He didn't mean to shout. 

"Alright. I'm going." Crowley winced, bare feet slapping on the tile as Aziraphale pushed him back towards the door, only tripping to a halt when Aziraphale let off on him long enough to open the door and urge him through to the other side. "Angel, I don't know if it's a good idea for you to-" The door slammed on his words before Crowley had a chance to finish speaking. It blocked out the bright burst of red hair, the stunned widening of golden eyes, the thoughtful expression of pain.

The sound of the wood shuddering in its frame resounded in his skull.

"Aziraphale?!" Crowley called, slamming his fist into the door. "Aziraphale!?" The sound of his full name was like a dagger to his heart. A reminder of the man he'd lost. Raphael was the one who called him Aziraphale, nobody else.

He stumbled back, shaking his head and forcing himself to ignore Crowley's shouts, to slam the door lock closed.

Raphael.

Raphael! 

Aziraphale buried his face into his hands and scream. He was dating a man with his husband's heart. He'd fallen for a man who had his husband's heart. What the hell was he supposed to do about that? It was too much to think about, and even someone who was completely stable wouldn't take it well. He wasn't stable. He knew he wasn't.

He was going to puke.

Aziraphale barely made it to the sink in time. The medication came back up with a watery gag that had them spilling down the drain in a swirl of white froth. Snorting the taste of vomit out of his nose, he washed his face and rinsed his mouth. Then repeated the process of taking his prescriptions.

All the while, he heard the incessant barrage of Crowley's fist on his door. The shout of his name. The high pitched staccato of his heart slamming in time with the knocks of Crowley's fists, the ringing of his ears eventually blocked it out.

Stumbling away from the kitchen, he looked for somewhere to go, somewhere to hide. His flat was a disaster. The reading nook blockaded by bookshelves, the room smelling of chemicals and dust. He didn't want to go back to his bedroom, but options were limited. Shaking uncontrollably, he dragged himself towards his bedroom. The first thing his eyes lit upon where the sex rumpled sheets, the distinct shape of a bottom smeared through paint, the indent of another head pressed into the pillow beside his own. 

"Goddamn it all..." Aziraphale moaned, wiping tears from his eyes. Desperately he snatched at the corner of the sheet and yanked it free. But for the pillows, he shoved the rest to the ground, to make friends with the books and the remains of Crowley's clothes. It was a mess. The whole place was a mess. He was a mess. 

His eyes landed on the picture frame sitting on his dresser, and he flinched, jerking his head away from the gaze of Raphael's portrait.

What in the heavens was he going to do?

Aziraphale woke up crying and spent the bulk of his morning in a downward spiral the likes of which he hadn't had in a long time. His medicine helped, keeping him in a fog even when all he wanted to do was panic and freak out. He was in shock. He knew it. His head flinched away from the events of the day before, careened haphazardly between self-loathing and confusion. He couldn't bring himself to think about what exactly all this meant.

He was interrupted from his wallowing by the sound of his phone ringing, the soft sweet familiar chime that announced it was Anathema calling. Groaning, Aziraphale sat up, forced his aching head to focus on finding his phone, which was not in its usual spot on the side table. A search proved the phone to be snagged somewhere between the floor and the tousled blankets. Aziraphale glared at the glow of the screen shining through the blankets, and for once, decided the phone wasn't worth answering. 

He had other things to think about.

"Ezra? Open the door. I know you're in here." Anathema beseeched from somewhere in the vicinity of the front door. Aziraphale groaned, looking to the ceiling for strength. Of course, he was here. He was an agoraphobe. Where else could he possibly go?

"Stop with the banging!" Aziraphale called if only to stop the persistent taps of her fingers against his door. Struggling to his feet, he didn't bother with his house shoes or fixing his sleep rumbled hair. Just grabbed his crutch and used it as leverage to heave himself upward. His back protested, strained from a night of restless sleep. His fingers felt numb around the grip of the crutch. 

He swung the front door open, took one look at her, and all her put together glamour, and rolled his eyes. Why did she always have to look so damn pleasant? Made him feel positively trollish. Her eyes were open wide and concerned, looking him up and down with a level of worry he was highly uncomfortable with.

"Why are you here?" He asked, wiping at his cheeks to make sure he at least didn't have tears on his face. Turning away, he glared around the kitchen and decided maybe it'd be worth making a cup of tea if only to occupy his hands.

"Crowley called me. Ezra, dear, you look awful? What's wrong?" Her eyes took in the rest of the flat, the half-finished paint, and the disaster zone they'd created the night before. Aziraphale looked up from checking a mug for paint splashes, following her gaze around the room.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing...Ezra, look at me." Beseechingly she reached out one well-manicured hand tugging at the sleeve of his robe until he turned his gaze back towards her. "He knows you value your privacy. He was just worried and wanted me to come up and check on you. Did you two break up?"

Aziraphale flinched, breaking eye contact.

"I can't...don't know. I really don't." He whispered, his fingers trembling around the cup so hard that Anathema reached out and took it from him before he dropped it. 

"Alright, sweetheart, go sit down. I'll get you some tea. Have you eaten?"

Aziraphale shook his head, taking the offer, if only because he was starting to tear up, and he wanted to hide the tears from her. He managed to squeeze around the bookshelves and get to the sitting area before he curled up on the sofa, dragging a blanket over his head to hide under. 

_Are we done? Is this too much to get over?_

Wasn't that the question? He couldn't be sure. He really couldn't. This whole revelation was playing tricks with his mind. He'd needed space to think, that was why he kicked Crowley out of the house, but his head was no better off now than it had been the night before.

Space brought its own demons. Its own revelations. 

Looking back, he couldn't help but think that somehow he knew. If, by some chance, he was drawn to the beautiful gardener that fateful day because he felt so familiar. It was a horrible thought. A terrible idea that maybe in some way Raphael's heart had called back to him, and combined they'd just...crashed together again.

"No..." Aziraphale protested the idea as soon as he thought it, moaning into the depth of his blanket at his ugly mind, twisting fingers into his blond locks in an attempt to wrangle it in. He knew that wasn't true, didn't he? What was wrong with him? 

"Ezra." Anathema's voice came from beside Aziraphale's shoulder, and he felt the thump of a mug on his head before he forced himself to open up the blanket and accept it. The rich scent of chocolate hit his nose. Peering down, he raised an eyebrow at the floating bits of marshmallow.

"Hot Cocoa?"

"Cocoa. I thought you could use some comfort."

"I don't own cocoa," Aziraphale sniffled, dipping his finger into the mug to give it a taste. It was rich and sweet on his tongue. 

"Well, some of it's a protein shake, if I'm honest. The rest is Crowley. He thought you'd enjoy it." Anathema explained. Aziraphale flinched. God, he was horrible. Crowley was so damn caring. So endlessly kind and thoughtful, and here he was questioning the very existence of what it was that they had. 

She plopped down on her side of the sofa and shifted until her stockinged feet dug under the warmth of Aziraphale's thigh. She had her own cup of cocoa and a box of biscuits to go with. Holding out the box, she offered him one before taking one for himself.

"You want to talk about it?" She asked, toeing at his leg with a free foot. She had those darn doe eyes going again, heaven, how could she make them so big?

"Not now..." Aziraphale whispered, pushing her toes away and burying himself as comfortably as he could in his corner of the sofa. 

"Telly then?"

"God, yes." He needed that, something stupid and trite to take away his agonizing thoughts.

They settled into a comfortable silence that was only broken by some nonsense Anathema put on the telly. Though Aziraphale didn't have the will to come out of the covers, he did lift them off his head and used the corners to cup his hot mug as he sipped. Oddly, he felt calmer, soothed by her presence. 

They'd known each other a long time, had been friends well before Raph and he had become a couple. Their current relationship might be strained sometimes, but he loved Anathema like a sister. She was one of the few people who knew everything about him. Who saw all the damage and didn't run away, mostly because she'd been through it too. She'd felt Raph's passing just as hard as he had. He'd been her brother, after all.

They had grieved his loss together, come through the other side, and somehow managed to move on, even if she'd done it a little bit better than he had.

Of all the people to understand what he was feeling, she was it.

Staring into his cup, he finally broke the silence, one weak tear slipping down his cheek to spill into the milky depths.

"He had a heart condition," Aziraphale swallowed a gulp of cocoa to fortify himself, his knuckles white where they clenched around the handle. Anathema sat up, her fingers going to silence the tv with the remote. Her eyes grow sad and worried.

"He's alright?"

"Yeah." Aziraphale scrapped at his eyebrow, jerking his head in a sharp nod. "Crowley has his heart," He whispered. Anathema's brow furrowed, and he realized he probably should have phrased that better. Looking away, he stared at the flickering screen of the television. He wasn't certain he could look in her eyes once he said it. "He has Raphael's heart."

The sound of a biscuit snapping filled the silence. It startled him into looking over, watching as tears filled her eyes. As her face crumbled with dawning realization. It was his turn to reach out and take the mug from her, to put it on the table and open his arms as she broke down. Only he wasn't strong enough to be her shoulder to cry on. He broke down too, sobbing into the sleeve of her dress, clinging to her for dear life. 

They were probably both thinking of the same thing. The same man, with rich almond eyes and a glittering smile. Raphael. He would light up a room with his smile. He'd get endless laughs out of Aziraphale when he came to bed smelling of turpentine and oil paints. His passion had been a vibrant, glorious, beautiful thing that showed in every painting and in every interaction he had with others. Raphael had been their star, and they had just been the lost creatures drawn to his light, left to wander in the dark once he left. 

They clung to each other. Until the tears went from waterfalls to dried up sobs and Aziraphale's back was screeching at him to sit upright and not like someone with a fully functional spine. This time around, it helped to have someone to lean on and come through the grief on the other side.

"How is that even possible?" Anathema croaked, letting go of her chokehold on his shoulders and reaching for the tissue box so she could wipe her runny mascara off. The couch springs creaked as she leaned over, offering him one. "He shouldn't know who his donor is, how does he-"

"I don't know," Aziraphale admitted, accepting a tissue to blow his nose. "I panicked, god, Anathema, I was such a jerk. We-I-we did some things...." He blushed, the color bursting over his cheeks. Anathema raised her eyebrows, and he knew that if the situation were different, he'd be getting mobbed any second. "And then, I found out, and I just panicked. God, he must hate me. I didn't even tell him why!" Aziraphale sobbed, covering his face in shame.

"Oh, babe, I can't even imagine what that felt like. I'm so sorry." Anathema whispered, sniffing elegantly, her lower lip trembling with emotion. "I'm sure he'll understand."

"That's the thing. I don't know...I don't know how to feel about it. What if I can't...separate the two?" Aziraphale admitted, looking up from under pale lashes, appealing for her understanding. 

Anathema looked him over, head tilted in a considering matter. Reaching for her mug, she took a fortifying sip, her lips pursing around white porcelain. She settled her chin on her palm and her elbow on the cross swell of her knee. The cocoa cup swayed precariously by one finger.

"What do you love about Crowley?" She asked, finally breaking the silence.

"I don't love him-"

"Psshhh! Don't feed me that bullshit, Ezra." She snorted, the teasing tone in her voice taking away the sting. "I know you have a hard time thinking about things like that. But I've seen you two. Whatever you both are, it involves being completely, head over heels, in love with each other. You two are worse than Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh, that's a terrible comparison." Aziraphale denied, jerking his head back in revulsion. "They both ended up dead."

"Fine, alright, bad example, but, honestly? I don't care if you label it as 'love.' You both care for each other and have been through so much. That man has sat by your bedside for days. You've been pining for him from the moment you saw that skinny butt bend over to tend the garden. You both are idiots, but you suit each other. So. Tell me what you love about Crowley?"

Aziraphale considered her words, unsure if he was ready to go there, not sure how to express what he felt for Crowley. He cherished Crowley for his caring, kind soul. For the way, he just seemed to know what Aziraphale needed. He envied the way Crowley's eyes lit up when the other man saw him. It was more than that too. It wasn't just about Aziraphale.

He admired Crowley for the way he smiled and whistled as he worked in the hot sun. For that moment, when black chipped fingernails dug into deep brown earth. For the alert look he got on his face when something exciting was about to happen. Even the way he ate his crisps was terribly endearing. Those eyes, that ridiculous leer. What was there about Crowley not to fancy?

"That-" Anathema declared, drawing his attention back to her. She pointed her finger at his face, a gentle smile lighting up her red-rimmed eyes. "You don't have to say it out loud, whatever you were just thinking, _that_ was love." 

That was...obvious now that he thought about it. But it didn't answer the question. What if he confused the two of them? What if he made it less about Crowley and more about Raphael?

"I don't know if-"

"Just wait a minute. I'm trying to help, I promise. Let me step into therapist mode for a moment. My minor in Psychology is finally going to help me a little." Anathema offered him another tissue, and he accepted it. He hadn't even noticed he was crying again. He was such a soggy sponge today, horrible, really.

"Now, tell me if anything you just thought about had even a speck to do with Raph?"

Slowly Aziraphale shook his head. God, he felt like a dunce, a silly, overreactive thing. Of course, it hadn't. Whatever he had for Raph had gone a long time ago.

"See? They're not the same person. You're not the same person." Anathema offered, nudging his shoulder before pulling him into a full-body hug. He grunted as his lungs were squeezed like a lemon, laughing, then sobbing.

She was right. 

Aziraphale, now, and Raphael's Aziraphale, were two very different people. Beautiful, conceited Raphael, with his social personality and outgoing effervescence, wouldn't know what to do with Crowley's Aziraphale. If he were honest, Raph would have taken one look at him, with his constant panic attacks and his list of fears from here to the door, and walked away. 

Crowley hadn't walked away. He'd seen a terrified, lonely man and decided to befriend him and help him. Crowley saw past it all. He didn't care about the anxiety and agoraphobia, depression, and almost anorexia. Crowley loved Aziraphale.

Aziraphale thought that he might just love Crowley back. Maybe. And yet...he still wasn't certain it was enough. Not when every time he laid his head on Crowley's chest, he would hear Raphael's pulsing heart.

It has been days. Five days to be exact. And Aziraphale could no more cope with the knowledge now, on day five, than he had then. The horrible thing was, he knew what he felt now, and he knew how he'd felt all those many years ago. Neither one helped him cope with the two worlds of his colliding. 

He didn't dare talk to Crowley. In his heart, he was a coward, and there was just no way he could face a confrontation at this point. Not when he didn't know what to do or how to feel. Not when Crowley was probably upset and hurting. He'd never done well with confrontation and didn't seem to be getting better at it any time soon.

So, as usual, he avoided it. He dodged Crowley just like he had at the very beginning when he'd been uncertain and fearful of what the other man wanted, of why they were interacting in the first place. 

And when he wasn't busy avoiding his troubles, he cried, because what kind of day would it be without a little cry fest? He tried to keep up with eating, to make himself a shake at the very least. But even that was difficult when he kept losing track of time.

At Anathema's urging, he had called Mary. They'd talked at length, and while she had some good advice, she admitted that it was a difficult situation and that there wasn't a right or wrong answer. It was a matter of if Aziraphale could figure out how to accept that Crowley had Raphael's heart and move on from it.

Mostly he felt numb. Was this how it used to be? Toddling between kettle and telly, and telly to bed? How had he survived this long, doing nothing, being trapped inside his own home, without anyone to break up the monotonous trudge of everyday life? He hadn't realized how much Crowley's presence had come to invade his daily routine. How much he was missed, now that he wasn't there with his constant sass and ludicrous clothing choices.

No matter how hard he had tried, he hadn't been able to call Newt in. The young man was Crowley's friend. There was no reason he would want to help Aziraphale with silly, trivial tasks. At least, that's what Aziraphale assumed, which left his flat in a continued state of disaster zone. It was horridly inconvenient, but Aziraphale could hardly put things back together now. Painting wasn't an option either, he needed a new tin, and without Newt about, well, that was unlikely to happen. He dared not bother him, though. The poor man was probably waiting to see if whatever this was would blow over.

As for Crowley, other than Anathema's brief mention of him, he was frighteningly absent as of late. Aziraphale would be well pressed to know where exactly the redhead was. The garden had, for the most part, gone untended. The roses were getting a bit prickly, and Aziraphale's garden bed, with its daffodils and peonies, had become very overgrown indeed. The grass needed tending, and the ducks seemed a little too pleased about the state of the pond. 

And yet, Crowley was still stubbornly missing up to now.

Aziraphale mostly knew this because, for the last two days, he'd been hoping to see Crowley step outside. It was that time of the month again—stipend check time. And he would very much prefer not to run into him at the moment. He wasn't ready yet. As much as the separation hurt, if he saw Crowley now, he would panic and might say something awful, unforgivable even.

Staring out the window, Aziraphale lurked, hiding behind the masking swath of his curtains so as he wouldn't get caught peeping, hoping for a brief glimpse of red hair, or a tanned shoulder, anything to tell him that Crowley was otherwise occupied. It never came. Aziraphale rocked on his chair and chewed on his thumbnail, anxious, impatient even.

He had bills. And even without those, what the heck was he doing? This was his home as well as Crowley's. The chances of them never seeing each other again was close to zero. And even if they weren't, why would Aziraphale never want to see Crowley? Why was he doing this to himself? To Crowley?

 _Because you're a coward, and a dolt, and useless piece of toast!_

The time was heading well into the afternoon. Aziraphale should just go. Be quick about it, and if he did run into Crowley, try his best not to implode like a black hole and take their relationship with him. Tapping his foot on the carpet, he gave one last longing look at the garden, craning his neck about just to make sure—no such luck.

He'd just have to buck up then, wouldn't he?

Aziraphale took the lift down with a growing sense of uncertainty and dread, his belly twisting. His heart picked up to a pace that suggested he was doing something far more laborious than just pressing the ground floor button. Even the haze of medician wasn't enough to calm his fears. He didn't want to do this. Honestly, he was terrified that he'd run into Crowley at any moment. And if he did, whatever composure he had would just crack. He'd probably fall apart. If what he was doing right now was considered keeping it together.

If life had taught him anything about Anthony Crowley, it was that he appeared at the most inopportune of moments. So when the lift jerked to a halt, and the doors trundled open, Aziraphale should have realized Crowley would be there. It was exactly on par with how their relationship had gone up to this moment.

Aziraphale heard him before the doors fully opened. It gave him enough time to shrink back and pretend he didn't exist. Crowley's sultry drawl, higher-pitched, possibly a little more aggressive than normal, wormed its way through the doorway.

"Alright, I'm going Ligur, can you calm your wobbly tits down?! The woman isn't going to die from a leaky spigot. Who gives a fuck if it's been a couple of days? It's not my fault your bloody repairman has his nose in the powder!"

Then the doors opened. 

Their eyes met from across the distance between them. For a moment, they both stood there, deer in the headlights stunned, eyes locked, neither certain what to do.

"I have to go." Crowley croaked into the phone receiver, not bothering to hanging up on whoever he was talking to.

Crowley looked like hell. Positively overgrown and wretched. His chin had a dark auburn shadowing of untrimmed fuzz. His hair was a tangled nest of curls that somehow defied gravity. It was his eyes that were the worst. Red rimmed and glossy, and holding so much sadness. Even now, looking at Aziraphale, they looked about ready to overflow. 

His heart told him to look away, to ignore everything that had happened the last few days, and pull Crowley into a comforting hug. To whisper comforting words and calm that frantic, broken look in the taller man's eyes.

His mind had other ideas. From just below the collar of his oversized jumper, Aziraphale eyes could just spy the sharp line of his chest scar. Just barely peeking from beneath the fabric. How had he never noticed that before? It was so obvious now that Aziraphale knew what he was looking for. Oh heavens, Aziraphale couldn't handle it. He was going to break down.

"Please don't look at me like that?" Crowley whispered, reaching out to touch Aziraphale check with icy cold fingers. Aziraphale flinched away from the contact, ducking his head down to try and hide the reaction. 

Crowley was so darn observant. Of course he noticed. He jerked, almost in physical pain at the sight. Aziraphales vantage point, he could so those trembling fingers clench into fists. They stood there in silence, neither one certain what to do. Until the quiet was broken by Crowley spinning on his heels and walking away.

As the lift doors started closing, Aziraphale slumped against the wall, covering his face with his free hand. He'd never felt so relieved to be rejected in his life.

What was wrong with him? He was ruining this, ruining everything.

"You know what, no!" Aziraphale jerked his head up, watching in dismay as slim tan fingers flashed across the space between the closing doors, activating the motion sensor and sending them to open again. 

There Crowley stood, shoulders thrown back, just puffed like he was ready for battle. The only thing throwing the effect off were his eyes, his eyes, and his hands. His eyes were overflowing, his hands shaking. Aziraphale flinched from the sight, knowing he was the one that made them tremble so. He'd never seen Crowley upset before. Not in all the time they'd been together. It was a shock. The infallible man brought down by Aziraphale of all things.

"I deserve a fucking explanation." Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale would have thought him angry if not for the way his voice cracked, and he broke down in a soft sob, covering his mouth with his hand, his eyes flickered over to the doors as they closed behind him. The lift had nowhere to go without either of them pressing a button. "Please, I can't-" He rolled his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears. "I've been trying to leave you alone, to give you space, but this is driving me mad!" 

Aziraphale didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do but watch the slow unraveling of Crowley as he took to pacing the width of the lift car, his arms wrapped tight around himself. He looked like he as falling apart, and it was all he could do to hold himself together. 

And it tore at Aziraphale's heart. 

"Anthony, please..." Aziraphale whispered, reaching out a hand to stop the frantic movements in their tracks. Crowley dug his hands into his hair, spinning on his heels to face Aziraphale. He was crying and trying to hold back the bulk of it. To be strong and not let Aziraphale see.

"I just, I'm sorry," Crowley whispered. "I don't know why I told you. I shouldn't have told you." His hand covered his chest, rubbing at his sternum with sharp frantic bursts. "Can you just pretend I didn't? Please?" 

Looking at him, Aziraphale realized that without any context, Crowley had come to the worst possible conclusions. He thought Aziraphale was disgusted by the idea of the transplant. He didn't know what was running through Aziraphale's mind. He didn't know about Raphael.

Of course Crowley didn't know.

"Oh, darling, no..." Aziraphale whispered, taking hold of his wrists and pulling him in close. "Don't think-its not because of that, never that," Aziraphale whispered, tangling his fingers in Crowley's hair as Crowley all but collapsed against him. Shoulders drooping so that he could fall forward enough to get to Aziraphale's level. Crowley had always been tall, so tall and above everything in Aziraphale's eyes. Untouchable, unbreakable.

At that moment, Crowley felt so small. Small and hurt. It suddenly didn't matter what Aziraphale thought about that heart in his chest or who it used to belong to. It didn't matter because the person it belonged to now was hurting, and for Aziraphale, that was too much to endure. Why did he care that it used to be Raphael's heart? It was Crowley's now, and Aziraphale was breaking it.

Turning his head, Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley's cheek, his lips flutter over salty tears, kissing them away. It didn't help that his own tears were mingling in, mixing and smearing as Crowley pulled up, enough to turn his head until they were kissing. A burning, desperate coupling of breaths, broken by Crowley's sob of relief when Aziraphale gave in just like that, leaning on his toes, his lips scrapping along Crowley's scruffy chin, whispering words of comfort. 

With a gasping fumble, Crowley dragged his hands up Aziraphale's hips, yanking and tugging at where his shirt tucked into his pants until the tails of Aziraphale's dress shirt slipped free from his trousers. 

There was an edge of desperation to his movements that Aziraphale had never felt before. Crowley broke away only long enough to yank on the emergency switch, twisting the key to turn the elevator off. The lights dimmed, glowing a deep amber. The electric hum died down to a quiet song in the background. Aziraphale didn't get a chance to think about the implications of that. His hands were full a second later of a shaking, needy man. 

"I need..." Crowley gasped, burying his face into Aziraphale's neck, and God was Aziraphale happy to provide. Crowley was possessing him, taking over every cell of his body as fingers yanked and tugged at the belt on his hips, dragging the zip to his pants down. And, oh heavens, was this not a situation where Aziraphale would have anticipated being randy out of his mind, yet he was already tightening into a needy hard line in his briefs, his sex swelling in Crowley's hand the moment icy fingers clenched around him.

"Take what you need darling, I have you." Aziraphale crooned, clutching the rail of the lift for support, toes clenching as he was stroked off in a sharp, possessive caress. He panted, watching in dismay as Crowley did much the same to himself, the band to his leggings pushing down to hook under his hard length. Then Crowley was taking them both in hand, gathering them up into a tight embrace of sex on sex wrapped in the calloused width of one large palm. All the while, his hands were shaking, his whole body was bowstring taut with urgency and anxiety and a horrible array of emotion. 

Aziraphale whimpered, clutching his palm around Crowleys and aiding the best he could, stroking upward to squeeze the soft, sensitive head of Crowley's shaft, urging them together until that tension eased out of Crowley's shoulders. He slumped forward to rest against Aziraphale with a panting moan of pleasure, face screwed up tight with concentration, eyes red with tears. It was simultaneously the worst and best thing Aziraphale could imagine seeing. 

"Ah...."

"Nnnn!"

The lift was silent but for the sound of their hitching gasps for oxygen and the rough slide of skin on skin, eased with a liberal dose of Crowley's saliva. Aziraphale road on a wave of mounting pleasure, driven higher by the play of flesh on flesh and the hard glide of their palms pulsing around him to an age-old rhythm.

Crowley came first. A soft, broken moan hitching in his lungs as he spilled onto their hands. Aziraphale didn't last long after. 

Aziraphale gasped through the aftermath of his climax, choking out a soft sound of surprise. It was only Crowleys arm around his waist that kept him upright. Crowley groaned in response. His face was buried into the side of Aziraphale's neck, and he was shaking. Shaking so hard that Aziraphale wasn't sure who was holding up who.

Like that, the quiet desperation that drew them together broke. Suddenly both of them came to the realization that they'd just had a very public wank off session. Aziraphale dropped his head back until it hit the metal of the lift, closing his eyes.

"Fuck." The word felt odd on his tongue.

"Fuck." Crowley agreed, not moving from where he was pressed up against Aziraphale's neck, his breath coming in exhausted puffs.

"That was stupid. I should go." Crowley croaked, pulling away so that the space between them was suddenly far too cold. Crowley shrugged off his jumper, wiping his hands clean on the fabric, and fixing himself in his trousers. He looked around the dimly lit lift, eyes glaring at the square confines. He couldn't look at Aziraphale. He looked ashamed. So ashamed. Of having sex in the elevator? Looking at him, Aziraphale thought it might be something a little worse. That Crowley thought he'd forced himself on Aziraphale. 

Feeling self-conscious, Aziraphale followed his example. There was no getting his shirt to look any less wrinkled, but he managed to hang the front of it well enough to hide the very telling stain on his trousers. 

"I'm not like this." Crowley interrupted, his eyes apologetic as he watched Aziraphale clean up. As if none of this had been the consensual meeting of two very emotionally vulnerable individuals.

The sound of the lift turning back on had Aziraphale flinching and watching as Crowley pressed the button to open the lift doors. He was leaving. He was walking away.

Aziraphale couldn't take it. The sight of him stepping through those doors. "No! Crowley!" Lunging forward far too fast, he just managed to reach out, to latched onto Crowley's fingers and tugged. "Wait!"

Crowley spun around. Even now, unable to resist the need to care for Aziraphale. He caught Aziraphale, hand steadying him long enough so that he could put his crutch into rights on the floor.

"It's my fault. It's my fault." Aziraphale moaned, and God, he didn't think he could cry anymore. His heart just ached for the life he used to have. For the future he seemed to be ruining. "Please, Anthony. Don't go. It was never you. It's just me. I have...issues I was trying to figure out. That's all. You could never do anything to make me hate you." 

Crowley looked confused, hurt, and in pain. His beautiful face furrowed with doubt. "What do you mean?" He croaked, his hand shifting to support Aziraphale's hips. 

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale closed his eyes and heaved in a breath. There was nothing to it. He had to tell Crowley. Had to explain because no matter what, everything that had just happened proved one thing. As much as he missed and loved Rapheal, Crowley was real. Crowley was here, and alive, and thriving and everything Aziraphale could ever want.

Crowley accepted Aziraphale for who he was. That silly, agoraphobic shut-in with a bad back and a tendency to undereat. Crowley was amazing. Crowley was everything good and wondrous in the world. And what's more...Crowley needed to know.

"Please, come up...I need to show you something." Aziraphale whispered. Looking up into those hurt eyes, that didn't shine like the sun at the moment, but rather looked a sickly sort of yellow. Ochre. He could barely meet them, for the knowledge that he had caused this beautiful man such pain.

Uncertain, like an injured animal, Crowley followed after him, stepping onto the lift and pressing the button for Aziraphale's floor. His hands shook, where Aziraphale held them. Giving those fingers a gentle squeeze, Aziraphale led him forward, back into his flat, and through the living room that still smelled of fresh paint. Half the walls were still primer white, the other half in a state of partial completion. 

Leaning on his crutch, each step felt like dragging a dozen pounds. His own body was terrified of where he was taking it. So that by the time he reached the door to his room, he was seeing auras and on the verge of a panic attack. He'd never really talked about this to anyone before. Not even Anathema. There was no way around it, though. He had so much to explain.

 _Not now. Please, not now._ He urged the panic to subside. This wasn't the time for weakness. _I need to tell him this. He needs to know_. Aziraphale urged his fears, dragging in a gasping breath.

Then he felt it. A gentle touch to his spine, a caress that used to be so new and now felt delicate and familiar. Like that, the overwhelming brightness becoming bearable, the singing in his ears fading to nothing. The terrifying drone of his own heart in his chest narrowed down to that soothing, familiar flutter of fingers.

Breath easing, Aziraphale found himself facing his old oak dresser, looking at the well-worn picture frame. Contained within was the beautiful face of the man he'd once loved and expressed unyielding loyalty too. 

For the first time in a long while, Aziraphale stared at that handsome face and didn't feel grief and loss. Instead, he felt just deep, undying gratitude for the man that had saved Crowley's life.

Crowley, who was standing beside him. Looking shellshocked and confused, waiting for him to speak.

"Crowley...I'd like you to meet Raphael...my husband." Lifting the frame, Aziraphale turned it for Crowley to see, hands shaking. Crowley gasps, flinching beside him and backing up a step. "Raphael Device. I took his name."

Crowley looked stunned. His hands fluttered light as a feather over his chest, across that deep scar that probably saved his life.

"He died five years ago. Car accident. Brain aneurysm. The doctors didn't even see it coming...they were so busy trying to help me, they never even looked at him." Aziraphale whispered. And for a moment, he was back there, on that hospital gurney, dazed and confused as they told him his husband had passed unexpectedly. The guilt he'd carried since then. If only he'd noticed something was wrong, if only he hadn't been the one to get hurt. Maybe they would have checked on Raph. Perhaps they would have noticed that Raphael wasn't alright and would have saved him. Survivor's guilt, it had never been kind to him.

"Fuck..." Crowley whispered, looking the picture over with a dark, troubled expression. His eyes, when he finally met Aziraphale's, were glassy from unshed tears. "I knew him."

Aziraphale flinched, ducking his head to stare down at Raphael's beloved face. That explained a lot.

"How?" Aziraphale asked, running his thumb over olive skin and brown hair. 

"We were in the same hospital room." His thin lips pursed into a tight line, and he seemed lost in a memory. "I was...god, Aziraphale, I was there." He whispered, the words riping from his chest.

Sobbing, Aziraphale covered his eyes, the portrait crashing to the oak dressed. His fingers shooked as they tried to stopper the tears in his eyes.

"He looked good for just getting in an accident. I didn't know him long, but he was such a smart ass. He was worried about you. I didn't know it then. He just kept talking about his husband, who was in surgery. He had a couple of bruises, that's all. It shouldn't have been anything serious." Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale didn't notice he was shaking until Crowley took up the photo and put it aside, gathering him up tight, like he could smother the shock out of Aziraphale's body. "I didn't...I never saw him again." Aziraphale whispered, dropping his head to Crowley's chest, gasping for breath around the aching hollow of his heart. It was surreal, listening to someone talk about Raphael.

"He wasn't around long, but you always get to talking about yourself in hospital. Too much time, not enough to do. He'd talk about you. I'd talk about me about how I was waiting for a heart." Crowley inhaled slowly, looking down into Aziraphale's eyes, "I was there, in the end. He was up, off to see you. And then the next, he was surrounded by doctors." Aziraphale closed his eyes. He'd heard something similar. He knew enough of the details, had played them through in his mind, over and over again.

"How did you know that it was his?" Aziraphale asked the question that had been puzzling him the whole time.

"I've always known it was his heart. There were too many coincidences. They don't tell you, but I knew." Crowley whispered, his lips twisted in an apologetic frown. "Oh, god, love-Angel. I'm so sorry." He whispered, pulling Aziraphale into a comforting hug. Aziraphale accepted the support, transferring his clutching fingers to the collar of Crowley's shirt. "No wonder this freaked you out."

"It did...but Crowley? He saved you." Aziraphale whispered, looking up. He couldn't help the soft smile that lit upon his lips. Crowley looked him over, but then he smiled too, a slow, relieved thing that grew and grew.

"Yeah, he did," Crowley whispered.

"It scared me at first, but I understand now. The me from back then? That Aziraphale died with Rapheal that day. I'm not the same person. I'm really not. If he were to be resurrected tomorrow, he wouldn't know me. But you do. I think you've known me from the moment we met in the foyer."

"You looked so fucking lost...and so damn gorgeous," Crowley laughed, the sound watery and broken. Aziraphale listened to the sound of his voice revibrating through his chest. Listened to the sound of Rephael's heart, Crowley's heart as it beat like a bird's wings against Crowley's chest.

"I think I was smitten with you from the moment I looked in your eyes..." Aziraphale admitted. Crowley was here. Crowley was real and alive.

"You looked frightened out of your mind. How I recall it."

Crowley loved him.

And, goddammit, Aziraphale loved him back.

"Anthony Crowley?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

Crowley's eyes lit up, and like that, there it was again that warm sweet sunshine gaze. His pink strawberry lips arched into a watery smile, and with calloused thumbs, he wipes Aziraphale's tears from his cheek, brushing his this down along the seam of them and moving his hands back to clasp at the back of Aziraphale's neck. 

"About time." He whispered, pulling Aziraphale up to press strawberry lips to salt-stained ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, other than the epilogue. My heart, how it is going to miss these two. I love them so much. I don't know if I'm going to be able to completely abandon this storyline if I'm honest.
> 
> The final chapter is up too in a couple of minutes, so click forward to read it!


	12. Epilogue: Than there Were Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've posted a chapter before this one, I couldn't wait, so here is the final chapter. Don't forget the one before this!

Aziraphale stood in the foyer of his building, a cheerful smile pulling up the corner of his lips. He still wasn't very comfortable in the hubbub and fuss, but he'd come to find that that feeling of discomfort could be ignored. For once, he was a happy fellow that added to the cheerful atmosphere. It was bustling and busy, bright and vibrant, and everything that Aziraphale loved. To say he was feeling quite pleasant indeed was an understatement. 

He supposed it might be his good news; Shadwell had finally caught up to the elusive Waxwing. Their research was going on without a hitch. Other possibilities included the handsome man standing just outside the foyer glass door. His hair was in a disarray of deep red curls atop his head. His hands were gripping onto a generally lopsided sign, propping it up with a couple of screws and some planks. 

Crowley. Yes, he was certain of it. His good mood was definitely due to being in good company. Yes, indeed.

As if to drive the point home, Crowley looked up at that moment as if he could sense Aziraphale's eyes on him. He shielded his eyes and grinned, a gloriously bright, ridiculous thing that was just as shocking now as it had been the day they'd met. Aziraphale grinned back, a cheeky blush of a smile that was kicked up with the beating of his heart.

It was hard to believe sometimes that all the love in those eyes was directed one-hundred percent towards him.

Ridiculous indeed.

"Good morning, Parsnip. How's the back?" Crowley called, not moving from his spot by the sign. It read The Gardens in a flourishing, flouncy script. The gold leaf made the words shine. The poor crooked pole it sat on made it look sad and a bit wobbly.

"Hello, my dear," Aziraphale answered, leaning on his arm crutch. "It's as good as medicine will make it." He admitted. Truth be told, he ached something awful. His crunchy spine had been fighting him all morning. He did his best to get comfortable, to snuggle in and sleep it off. But here he was, late afternoon already fading, with a whole day wasted and not much to show for it. 

"If you need me to wrestle it into submission again, just let me know." Crowley offered. Aziraphale blanched. No, he could do without another one of Crowley's special massages. The man had far too many muscles for such a thing, and Aziraphale did not have skin tough enough to put up with it.

"Whatever are you doing?" Aziraphale asked instead, throwing him off the idea entirely. 

"Meh, some snot-nosed punks knocked down the sign. A couple of stones worth of cement will teach them." Crowley groused, bending to pour water over what looked like cement mix. His knees stuck out like some demented grasshopper. All legs, that's what Crowley was. 

"Why don't you come over here and give us a kiss?" He asked, looking up at him from under dark lashes. The water made a glug-glug sound as it drained down, bubbling and sputtering into the mix.

Giving the outside world a look about, Aziraphale sighed.

"I don't know..."

"Come on, handsome, one peck for your Crowley? I'm not gonna be able to move from this post until it sets." The things he could do with those eyes. Aziraphale was a sucker for those sunshine yellow orbs.

Giving him a look of distaste (it was best not to let him get used to this sort of thing), Aziraphale scootched out into the sunlight. First one foot, then the other stepped their way from marble to the dark asphalt. His crutch clacked, the sound muted compared to the noise it made on the foyer floor. And then he was walking, focusing on Crowley and Crowley alone until he reached his side. His heartbeat was crazed rhythm in his chest. It was all so frightening. He couldn't help the initial reaction of wanting just to run away. It was only recently that he'd managed to overcome his fear.

 _'Close your mouth and inhale quietly through your nose, count of 4. Hold your breath to a count of 7. Exhale'_ He repeated the words over and over to himself as he took the few steps to Crowley's side. 

Crowley's smile was this silly, proud sort of thing, as he stretched up from his crouched position, taking Aziraphale under his wing with one muscular arm, the other holding the post still.

"Look at you." He crooned, bending to press his lips to Aziraphale's. They kissed, and Aziraphale shivered and shook through the whole thing. His ears were singing so that he couldn't hear Crowley's murmur of appreciation. His soft sounds of approval. He felt it, though, in the vibrant burst of pride that bounced around in his chest. Such a small thing, but he did it, he was outside!

Crowley pecked his lips once, twice. Aziraphale pecked back, nothing to indecent. He had his dignity to consider, after all. 

To the left, someone whistled. A glare over his shoulder showed Newt's retreating back as he disappeared into the building. No doubt on his way upstairs to do some of the laundry before they started on their physical therapy.

"What a cunt." Crowley crumbled, watching Newt disappear around the corner. The grin that made its crooked way onto his cheeks took the bite out of the comment. Turning back to Aziraphale, he offered a hard squeeze, one of those hugs that was far too much, yet exactly what Aziraphale needed. "I saw your nightingale today." He explained cheerfully, his voice strained from squeezing Aziraphale so tight.

"Oh, yes?" Aziraphale wheezed, tapping breathlessly on his shoulder until Crowley let off. "How is she doing?" He asked once he caught his breath, turning his head to look out across the deep green grass of the garden.

"She's taken to nesting in that tree right over there. She has herself a handsome little man now." Crowley indicated a flourishing tree just to the left of the traffic light. Aziraphale peered towards it, but as usual, she was hidden from his sight. She only ever seemed to show herself to Crowley.

Every season he managed to get some lovely pictures of her for Aziraphale. It was a tradition now. Something Crowley did to commemorate their anniversary. Aziraphale treasured every one.

No matter the pictures Crowley took for him, his own longing never truly diminished. His fingers ached for the grip of his camera. His heart yearned to take the measly steps across the street. To climb up and just look at her in all her feathered glory. 

The sun was just right, too. It was heading towards the prime hour for photography. When the sun was low enough to create dense, rich shadows, the light rays glistened with an otherworldly yellow. It would look perfect on her feathers.

A passing car jolted him out of his reverie. The hum of the engine an unwelcome rumble in his ears. He didn't panic like he used to. He just sighed, burying his face into the dark fabric of Crowley's shirt to hid from it. Crowley hummed, wrapping him up in a warm embrace.

His nose wuffled along the shell of Aziraphale's ear, lingering there. "We'll get there, love. We will." He reassured. His breath warm and comforting along Aziraphale's neck, his shoulders a sheltering cacoon blocking the bad away. The sound of his heartbeat drowned out even the most obnoxious of engines."I love you, Anthony dearest," Aziraphale whispered into the fabric of his shirt.

"Love you too, Parsnip."

And wasn't that the most beautiful sound in the world?

Long, broad fingers slid along Aziraphale's hand, twining their fingers together. Their wedding bands clinked together, metal on metal.

Well, maybe the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end has come! I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> This fiction gets a lot of traffic, but very little reader input since it was completed, so as a final request, I would LOVE at least one little kudo if you read it, and enjoyed it! 
> 
> If you got this far please don't forget to kudo  
>  or comment. Also bookmark, since there are plans for sequels in the future!


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